


Tired Tired Sea

by MediaWhore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, B&B Owner Louis Tomlinson, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Just... slow paced af, Lighthouse, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, Pop Star Harry Styles, Recovery, Sad Harry Styles, Scotland, Seaside, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Strangers to Lovers, famous/non-famous, mild anxiety, slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 17:11:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 113,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19277764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediaWhore/pseuds/MediaWhore
Summary: As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy, it's been a while! But here we are again, I made a thing !!!!! 
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta [K](http://itreachedthatpoint.tumblr.com) for being a second pair of eyes and helping me talk through the plot of this thing. Any remaining typos/mistakes are obvs my own. 
> 
> Massive massive thank you to [harrehleh](http://harrehleh.tumblr.com) who made so much amazing art for this fic that I still can't quite believe it ! 
> 
> I also have to thank [Katie](http://larrymaybe22.tumblr.com) for sending the prompt that started it all and for her subsequent enthusiasm and encouragement. 
> 
> Finally, I want to thank everyone who loved this fic when it was nothing but a tiny little drabble and who encouraged me to make it a full thing. 
> 
> As usual, shoutout to the big bang mods. You guys are rockstars <33
> 
> PS. back in the day, my lovely anons made a playlist for this fic. I listened to nothing else while writing it. [Here's](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4tnOsUygIgAnyZqzeCixEh) a link if you're interested :)

_“and I wish I could leave my bones and my skin_

_and float over the tired tired sea_

_so that I could see you again” – Words // Gregory Alan Isakov_

The wind howls early in the morning, a comforting lullaby for a man who has lived on Fair Isle for almost a decade. Where some would be awakened by the sounds of birds chirping, Louis Tomlinson’s eyelids flutter open at the wailing harmony of the wind and sea. Not quite a storm, not yet, but the end of October always brings forth more temperamental weather, like nature slowly preparing herself for the difficult winter months to come. Louis shivers a little as he brings his comforter closer up to his shoulder, hiding his neck under the covers. Most of the B&B’s windows are closed, the one in his room certainly is, but the wind’s whistling can still be heard so clearly, an impatient and demanding companion that can never fully be ignored. Louis sighs, reaching blindly under his pillow with one hand until he feels the shape of his phone. He turns it on, blinking quickly as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. He doesn’t actually need to turn the phone on to know it’s half past five. There are no clocks in his bedroom, but his body is so accustomed to the routine he’s cultivated for years that it’s basically a given. Louis almost smirks when the phone confirms his suspicion, but it barely lasts a second when he notices that he’s only at 40%. He’ll have to wait until seven o’clock to charge it considering that’s when the power comes back on the island every morning.

Louis inhales slowly, then lets out a deep sigh before putting the phone away. He always prefers a higher percentage when he gets up. Most days, music in his ears is the only thing that makes his morning jog bearable and the thought of it dying right in the middle is… less than optimal. Still, there’s nothing he can do but pray his old iphone won’t be a dick today, which, knowing how battery draining the device finds literally every single operation, seems unlikely. Speaking of his morning ritual, Louis half smiles when he hears a small clatter right outside his bedroom, followed by a loud whine. Clifford certainly knows the routine just as well as Louis’ body does and he’s already nosing at the door in anticipation, nails clinking against the bottom. Louis usually rarely sleeps with the door closed because Cliff doesn’t like being alone at night almost as much as his master, but he suspects a strong gust of wind from a forgotten open window must have forced it shut, locking his dog outside. Just at the thought enters Louis’ brain, Clifford lets out a louder whine.

“‘Kay,” Louis mumbles to himself with a raspy voice, “time to get up.”

It’s a matter of urgency now, considering he needs to walk the dog – and jog in the process, even though his body loathes the idea of keeping fit – then shower before the guests start waking up and demanding breakfast from him. Luckily, there’s only one room currently occupied at the South Lighthouse B&B, a married couple in their mid-sixties who, braver than most, booked time off on Fair Isle late in the autumn. Louis’ establishment is usually eerily empty this late in the season, tourists somehow not eager to spend their winter on a cold, practically deserted island further up north than necessary and subjected to the harsh weather. Louis, who has witnessed more than one visitor end up trapped for days after their planned departure date because of violent storms, can’t really blame them. Money is always tight in the winter though, so he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate Mr and Mrs Jackson’s late holiday. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he served them breakfast late, they’re an understanding bunch and their ferry back to the mainland only leaves in the afternoon so they wouldn’t mind a late checkout. But Louis prides himself on the quality of service in his establishment, which means he serves breakfast every day between half-past eight and ten o’clock. No delays. No exceptions.

He pushes the duvet off his body, fighting his strong instinct to stay curled up and warm, then he shivers as he makes his way down the ladder of his single bed. He’s been teased mercilessly and often by his army of siblings for essentially being an adult with a bunk bed, but the old lighthouse keeper’s accommodation was always the most logical choice for his permanent residence. It’s the smallest bedroom on site, first of all, cramped and mostly uncomfortable, with nothing but the bed, a dresser and a small window to fill it. It was built to be functional rather than comfortable.

Louis supposes he could charge for the experience what with the fact that the room is almost identical to what it looked like when the last lighthouse keeper lived here.

Back in the days, before the tower was decommissioned, the man in charge of guiding ships home lived in what resembles more a ship’s cabin than a room while his family lived in the much more comfortable cottage next door. Now, there’s an annexe joining the two buildings for the guests’ convenience, meaning that they can walk from the B&B’s main building to the tower to cuddle up in the reading nook in the lantern room on top of the lighthouse without having to face Fair Isle’s windy weather. The corridor joining the two buildings is drafty though, making Louis’ bedroom cold and uncomfortable even on the warmest of summer days. Louis could never, in good conscience, charge money for people to stay there. It was always going to be his own, as depressing as it might be, and Louis quickly started mentally referring to it as a tiny loft of sorts, with his bed as the only thing on the second floor, just to make it less unbearable. Though truth be told, Louis prefers being close to the tower, even if his responsibilities don’t involve it the way his predecessors’ did. It’s just nice to be out of the way, he supposes, when his home is full of strangers for half of the year. And when the B&B is empty Louis can go straight from his bed to the top of the lighthouse in one minute to enjoy the view. It’s pretty amazing, considering. Louis doesn’t spend a lot of time in the reading nook up there when the B&B is full of tourists, but during winter, when the island grows quiet and still, the sixty people who inhabit it permanently the only souls on board, Louis rarely spends an evening anywhere else.

Once he’s climbed off the ladder, Louis goes to the window, automatically pushing the curtains open even though he knows the sun isn’t up yet. He frowns at the still dark sky, the hint of freezing sea barely visible in the distance, though Louis can hear its tempestuous presence – to think winter hasn’t even arrived yet. He sighs, taking his hoodie off in one movement before throwing it on his bed, nodding with self-satisfaction when it lands perfectly. He regrets the action immediately when the air hits his naked skin. He quickly walks to the bulky wooden dresser under his bed, pressed against the red brick wall, grabbing the torch on top of it and clicking it on before opening a drawer. He swears under his breath as he looks through the drawer, quickly settling for a black long sleeve tee and dropping the torch into the middle of the rest of his clothes to put it on as fast as possible. Then, he takes off the sweatpants he usually wears to bed in order to swap them for another almost identical pair that’s freshly washed. He’s too lazy to change out of the grey wool socks he wore for bed so he simply raises them up over the bottom of his trousers before slipping trainers on and making his way to the tiny ensuite attached to his room. Toilet, sink and the smallest cubicle known to man – it’s not great, but it gets the job done, Louis thinks as he brushes his teeth quickly. He’s balanced the torch awkwardly on top of the toilet which means only half of his face is illuminated, making him look even more exhausted than he actually is. He takes a second to grimace at himself in the mirror once he’s done brushing his teeth, wrinkling his nose at his reflection as he rubs the palm of his hand against his auburn beard. Lottie would definitely say he’s in need of a trim, might even chase him around their mother’s house with a pair of scissors if she could see him like this. She’d probably have something to say about moisturizing too, but Louis kind of enjoys his dishevelled look.

Louis exits the bathroom, clicking the torch off and putting it back in his place before climbing back to his bed to grab his phone. Finally, after what Clifford probably feels was an eternity though it was only five to seven minutes, Louis steps out of his bedroom and into the waiting paws of his gigantic dog who, of course, attempts to climb him the minute the door open.

“Morning Cliff,” Louis says with a laugh, stumbling a little under the weight. He buries his hands in the fur on both sides of Clifford’s neck, giving his dog a big kiss before pushing him off carefully. “Go on, get off me you big brute,” he continues teasing in what he’d never admit is a babying voice. “Yeah, you know we’re going on a walk, no need to be so dramatic boyo,” he adds when Cliff tries to jump on him again.

He pushes past the dog, successfully stopping him from jumping again, then turns right, walking past the spiral staircase that leads up to the top of the repurposed tower until he reaches what used to be the front door in the 19th century. Now, the door only leads through the annexe to the cottage, helping Louis and the guests avoid the worst of the Scottish weather. He shivers as soon as the door opens and he steps into the corridor, the space so poorly insulated he might as well be walking outside. Clifford walks past him easily, knowing exactly where he wants to go and leading the way, clearly unbothered by the sudden change in temperature. In all fairness, Louis is still half asleep, eyes squinting and half shut as he follows his dog to the cottage. He’s always been more sensitive than most to the cold, something most members of his family – especially his mother – love to tease him mercilessly about whenever he dares to complain about the cold so far up North.

It was a bit of a strange choice for him to settle here, Louis will admit to that.

But as he walks into the shared living room space to grab his denim jacket and Clifford’s leash from the wooden coat rack nestled in the corner of the room and he catches sight of the sea beyond the cliffs through the shadows that he’s lucky enough to call home, Louis can’t help but think that he’d rather die than be anywhere else. His sensitivity to cold temperatures be damned.

Clifford wiggles his tail at the sight of his leash, even though Louis never really puts it on him and he owns it more as a precaution than anything else, and they both exit the living room. Louis puts his jacket on just before they reach the front door and he takes a second to double check his pocket for plastic bags and his headphones. Once he’s confirmed he’s in possession of both items, Louis puts the headphones on and presses play on his morning run playlist, opening the door and letting Clifford get a headstart before starting to jog behind him, following the curve of the cliffs.

Twenty minutes later, Louis stops running as he and his dog carefully walk down the thin uneven path to reach the beach at the bottom of the cliff. Clifford happily starts running off into the water as soon as his paws hit the sand and Louis can’t help the chuckle that escapes him at the sight. Every morning, it’s the same. Louis doesn't start jogging again, walking slowly on the beach and appreciating the view. It's still dark, but there's a hint of light on the horizon, the beginning of the day almost there for Louis to witness. The cliffs look impressive, even more so in the dark, Louis thinks vaguely as he looks back. They look threatening, like sleeping giants protecting their coast; dormant, tranquil, but still deadly if needed. Louis loves them best when they're shrouded in shadows like this, one breath away from dawn or when night starts to creep in. Clifford huffs excitedly, forcing Louis to look forward again and he smiles when he sees the branch he's carrying. Louis grabs it, easily throwing it before starting to walk again. The music changes to a melancholic song one of his sisters’ probably recommended to him, the deep voice sad and longing. It's a song made for the darkness, for the moments before the world fully wakes, for the comfortable loneliness associated with them. Louis exhales, putting both of hands into his jacket pockets and enjoys the empty beach.

&

Soon enough, Louis and Clifford need to start making their way back to the B&B. They’ve walked a lot further away on the beach than Louis usually ventures and a quick look at his phone informs him it’s almost half past six. He needs to get back quickly if he wants to have time to shower before Mr and Mrs Jackson wake up. It’s always a difficult balance to strike since there’s no hot water before seven and Louis isn’t particularly fond of freezing showers – he isn’t particularly fond of freezing _anything_ – no matter how fast they are. He almost has it down to an art by now though, even if he does get distracted by the beautiful scenery and his dog’s excitement once in a while.  

By the time he’s back at the lighthouse, it’s only a quarter past seven and Louis is barely running late. Clifford is as energetic as ever, jumping around Louis’ body, trying to climb him like he thinks he’s still a small pup as Louis tries to open the front door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting you food in a bit, you big drama queen,” Louis whispers affectionately to him when he finally pushes the door open and they walk past the small reception area.

It’s a bit pretentious to refer to it as such when it’s nothing more than a counter with an old crappy computer and a bright yellow retro phone tucked in one corner and barely enough space behind it for Louis to sit down, though he does have a stool. The wall behind reception has a framed photograph of the lighthouse hanging from it, one of the few decorative items Louis kept from the previous owner. It makes Louis laugh at the pretentiousness of the thought process that went into picking it and hanging it up every time he sees it, so he never took it down. The phone and computer are a different story and speak more to Louis’ laziness to change perfectly functioning equipment than anything else, but he supposes it adds to the vintage charm of his establishment.

Louis starts taking his coat off as he walks towards the living room, Clifford still following behind.

"Morning!" Mrs Jackson says happily from one of the brown leather sofas, making Louis jump in his skin just as he walks in.

"Mrs Jackson!" he yelps, turning around with one hand clutched to his chest, the other trapped in the denim jacket hanging from his arm. "Jesus, you gave me a fright,” he adds, taking the jacket fully off with minimum clumsiness and immediately tugging his headphones off once he’s done.

Despite an aura of sternness, Mrs Jackson doesn’t seem offended by Louis’ profanity. She smiles at him kindly, closing the book she was reading and pushing her glasses on the top of her head. There’s a discarded torch on her knees that seems to suggest she’s been reading downstairs for a while, though she’s abandoned it now that the sun has risen, illuminating the room in a soft glow.

“I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she replies, reaching down to pet Clifford when he approaches her to say hello.

“Mr Jackson is still sleeping?” Louis assumes, putting both his jacket and Clifford’s leash back on the coat peg.

Mrs Jackson rolls her eyes. “He’d sleep through an earthquake that man, honestly.” She sounds fond more than anything else.

"Oh, I hope Clifford and I didn't wake you up this morning," Louis says, already mentally preparing himself to offer them a discount for the inconvenience when Mrs Jackson lets out a loud and beautiful laugh.

"Unless you were the ones snoring in our room...? You'd think I'd be used to it after thirty years of marriage, but he still keeps me up.” She rolls her eyes before continuing. “But I had this book to finish before we leave anyway, so it sorted itself out really."

Louis eyes the mystery novel she’s still holding. It’s one of the guests’ favourites since it’s actually set on the island and gives them a spooky companion to their visit. Louis always tries to leave a few copies lying around the building.

"You can always leave with it," Louis offers, gesturing towards the book. Last time he counted, he had at least five copies scattered around. There’s definitely two in the reading nook on the top of the tower and the others are in the bookshelves that surround all four walls of the living room, except where the large window is letting the first ray of sunlight in. The room is more of a library than anything else really, but Louis feels pretentious referring to it as such when guests are around. And common room makes it sound like a hostel, not that Louis dislikes such establishments but he’s aiming for a more upmarket feel. So Louis calls his library a living room and kind of hates himself for being so anal about it all.

"Steal your book?" Mrs Jackson pretends to be shocked. "My dear, I could never."

Louis smiles at her deadpan delivery. "You know our policy,” he tells her. “ Take a book, leave a book. And if you can't leave a book, I'm never too fussy. I don't have eyes around the back of my head, do I? It'd be fine if you accidentally left with it.” Louis shrugs. “I probably wouldn't even notice," he adds in an exaggerated whisper.

"You're too kind, Louis," Mrs Jackson says and it's not the first time Louis has received that type of compliment, but it's the first time someone has made it sound like a threat. "People will take advantage,” she adds warningly.

Louis smiles, trying not to look too condescending. She's seen more of the world that he has, has had much longer to get to know the unkind way men can treat each other, but she's a stranger on the island. She doesn't know there's nothing to fear here. "I think I'm going to be okay,” he replies politely, “but I can always delay breakfast if you want to give Mr Jackson more time to sleep, and yourself more time to read," Louis says with a small wink.

"If you need more time to wash that jogging stink off, Louis, you only have to say so. There's no need to try and pretend that you’re doing _me_ a kindness," she teases without skipping a beat, pushing her glasses back onto her nose and opening the book again.

She's very theatrical. Louis has noticed it in the past two weeks that the couple has been staying at the B&B. He finds himself strangely thinking he's going to miss her once they've gone. He knows it's not as simple as that and part of it is fuelled by the knowledge he's about to enter his winter exile and he always has mixed feelings about the way the world slows down and the solitude amplifies when everything freezes during the offseason. Still, she's funny and sharp; Louis appreciates the company of someone like that. Clifford is the best friend a man could ask for, but he doesn’t have much wit to offer.

Suddenly, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes disappears as she gives him a serious look. "We know you do everything by yourself here, you know. It's a lot of work. A late breakfast isn't going to affect your TripAdvisor rating."

Louis laughs. "I appreciate that. I'll only be fifteen minutes though and then I can get started. I'm assuming you'll be getting the usuals?"

Mrs Jackson smiles. "Please. Now off you go, feed that dog before he dies of starvation."

Clifford jumps to attention when she gestures towards him, getting up from where he'd dropped himself on the fluffy white rug in the middle of the room.

"Right, wouldn’t want my child to go without" Louis agrees jokingly before calling Clifford and leaving the room.

&

As predicted, Louis feels a pang of loneliness hit once Mr and Mrs Jackson have checked out. He watches them leave hand in hand, trailing their luggage behind as they start the fifteen minutes walk into town. From there, they’ll probably make the mistake of grabbing a snack at Dunn’s grocers, thinking they’ll need it for the two and a half hours journey on the _Good Shepherd IV_ back to Shetland. And even though they’ve made the trip to Fair Isle before, even though they’ve experienced the sea’s uneasiness and the tiny boat’s rocky journey, they’ll assume they might get hungry. It’s every tourist’s mistake, even those with steady stomachs who never get seasick. Next trip in – mostly with supplies and no passengers now that October is coming to an end – Roger, the small ferry’s Captain, will make fun of them for their green faces and unease. It happens every single time, but as long as they spend more money on the island and support their community, no one is going to warn them against it. Soon enough, Mr and Mrs Jackson will be back home in Lancashire, treasuring the memories of the adventure they’ve had in the Scottish edges.

Louis sighs on his doorstep, chuckling a little when Clifford headbutts him in the back of his thigh like maybe he’s thinking he deserves more attention now that it’s going to be just the two of them. Louis turns around and walks back inside the cottage, fingers drumming on the reception counter for a second before he lifts himself to the tip of his toes, curling his body over it to look at the shelf hidden from sight. It’s a mess, there’s no way around it, with various receipts and post-its scattered around between pens, two novels and Tunnock’s caramel wafer wrappers right next to a rusty red and yellow Lipton tea tin where Louis hides his favourite snacks. He hums to himself before grabbing a black pen, pushing the wrappers around until he finally finds a notepad.

“Come on Cliff, stop that,” Louis mumbles when the dog tries to climb the counter, the nails of his front paws clicking against the wood. He barks in response, but barely has the time to react before Louis kindly pushes him down. “None of that, you know better,” he says sternly, putting the pen behind his right ear and dropping the notepad in the back pocket of his jeans.

Someone else might have waited longer than one second after their last guests leaving before starting an annual inspection of needed repairs and improvements all over the building, but Louis is if he dares think so himself, not most people.

He has maybe four to five months to make sure the cottage and the tower are in top shape for the next season. His first winter on Fair Isle, Louis had confidently made the mistake to assume he would only need a few weeks to get everything in order for the next influx of tourists. He had rested – more than any self-employed person should – and had spent a couple of months back in Yorkshire with his family and he had left it all for the month of March. And March madness it had been – Louis still thinks of it with burning shame. If it hadn’t been for the kindness of his neighbours, Louis never would have pulled it off. Nowadays, he knows better. He stays on the island, first of all, keeping an eye out for the property he rents from the National Trust. And he never pushes back any tasks if he can help it. There’s nothing worse he could imagine than having to bother the crofters of Fair Isle again for more help. Even though he’d label them all as friends rather than neighbours now, it would be much more embarrassing to need them still now that he has got a few years of managing the B&B under his belt.

So Louis walks back to the front door, looking down at the red and white jumper he’s got on, wrinkling his nose as he mentally debates whether he should grab one of his jackets, before deciding it wasn’t that cold outside and that his walk-around shouldn’t take that long anyway. He opens the cottage door, taking one step forward to get out while licking his lower lip when a strong gust of wind makes him stumble backward. He chuckles a little, trying again with Clifford trailing after him. Once he’s outside the building, he starts circling the property, reaching in his back pocket for the notepad to write WHITE PAINT in capital letters before underlining it. The exterior of the cottage truly needs a fresh coat. Thankfully, the lighthouse itself was dealt with a couple of years prior, an expensive refurbishment that had been financed by The National Trust of Scotland, so Louis doesn’t have to worry about the tower. He shivers a little, regretting his life choices but stubbornly continuing the inspection while swearing under his breath every time the wind whistles, the cold air teasing the back of his neck. He spends a long time inspecting each window of the ground floor, making sure there’s no draft. He suspects he might have to fix the library’s and he adds it to the list with a small question mark next to it, before going back inside to carefully check each room. First the common areas downstairs, then the kitchen, before moving on to the bedrooms on the first floor and each of their ensuites. Soon enough, afternoon morphs into evening and with it, the list grows and grows.

&

A few days later, Louis is coming back from the village with an armful of supplies – mostly paint for the outside of the cottage – with Clifford walking a few steps ahead of him on the path. It’s not a road, not really, more like a small muddy footpath large enough for two where the grass has been walked on so much there’s nothing left of it and that connects the Lighthouse to the main road that goes through the village and up the north side of the island. Not very glamorous, but the fields of vibrant green, the cliffs and the sea ahead more than make up for the lack of access to the B&B by car. Only the most high maintenance of guests usually complain about it. And by the time they leave, they’ve normally been so charmed by the picturesque village and the breathtaking seaside views, that they’ve all forgotten about the lack of amenities.

Louis is only a couple of minutes away when he notices an unfamiliar figure in the distance, hovering near the cottage entrance. Louis stops in his tracks, readjusting the large tote bag filled with paint cans that are digging painfully in his shoulder with one hand, the other busy carrying a potted plant that he purchased on a whim, thinking it would brighten his bedroom. Louis squints before snapping his finger to stop Clifford from trotting along, calling him back so they can take a moment to observe the stranger unnoticed. Tall with an oversized olive green jacket engulfing his slim frame, the man is pacing in front of the door, only one strap of his large backpack on his shoulder. He’s jittery. Even from afar, Louis can see the way he keeps fiddling. With the straps of his bag one second, then with the jacket that keeps opening up with every gust of wind the next. He doesn’t zip it up, just starts playing with his black scarf as he keeps walking one length of the cottage before turning around and doing it again. Then, he starts playing with the straps of the backpack again. If Louis was a mistrustful person, he’d find him suspicious. As it is, he’s mostly intrigued.

“Doesn’t look like our regular backpackers, uh,” Louis whispers towards Cliff before starting to walk again.

He can’t help but feel a bit confused. If his hands weren’t occupied, he’d grab his phone to make sure he doesn’t have a missed a text from Roger about dropping new visitors on the island with his shipment. Or even from someone in the Dunn family. As owners of the grocers/general store, they’re normally the first to know about any visitors. News travels fast on the island and gossip usually goes through the sixty people who permanently live on Fair Isle in less than thirty minutes – ten if the news is particularly juicy. Between whispers, phone calls and texts but, no one is left out of the loop. Theirs is not a land of mystery, no matter how many tourists operate under the flawed romantic notion of outlandish isolation associated with the island lifestyle. Oh, they’re isolated that’s for sure, cut off from the rest of the world, but certainly not from each other. And Louis was just in town twenty minutes ago! There can only be one reason why he hasn’t been warned: this man has slipped through the cracks and managed to reach Fair Isle unnoticed. That’s certainly a first. Newcomers, visitors, tourists, friends and family of the locals; no one set foot on Fair Isle without everyone knowing about it. Immediately.

If he’s looking for shelter – as Louis strongly suspects that he is – there are only three options on the entire island. The South Lighthouse B&B that Louis proudly calls his own, one small B&B in the village with more affordable prices, and a Hotel on the northern tip of the island. Since the entire population lives in the village down south though, most tourists stay in the area apart from a few hikers, photographers and other outdoors enthusiasts who don’t mind abandoning whatever there is of civilization on the island during their stay. Realistically though, since most tourists don’t venture up north to sleep, there are only two _viable_ options for people in need of a room. If someone is looking for one, Louis is usually alerted – especially during the drought, the winter months when tourism dies down and every new visitor is an invaluable potential source of income. If the stranger had been seen, Louis would know.

So the pacing man managed to reach Fair Isle – and the Lighthouse outside the village – completely unseen. That’s… that’s different.

“Hey,” Louis calls out as casually as possible once he’s only about ten steps away from the door.

The stranger startles, taking a step away from the living room’s window he was trying to peep into before turning around to face Louis. Clifford barks and, for one second, Louis thinks he might have to reprimand him, what with the way the man’s eyes widen and he takes a small step back like maybe he’s afraid. His face smooths quickly into a neutral expression and he extends a hand towards Louis’ dog, silently saying hello.

Clifford certainly doesn’t need to be invited in twice and suddenly he’s crowding into the man’s space like the badly behaved heathen that Louis proudly raised. Thankfully, Cliff doesn’t go for any of his most appalling habits – like thinking he’s still a tiny puppy and jumping on people, almost killing them in the process. He just headbutts the newcomer in the leg, saying hello the best way he knows how. He’s so strong the man does stumble a little backward, but all in all, it could be worse.

“Hey,” the man whispers, voice surprisingly deep, while Clifford noses at his hands, starting to lick his long fingers after a few seconds.

Louis is so busy looking at the way the man seems deeply unsettled despite not looking uncomfortable under Clifford’s attention that he doesn’t realise he’s being scrutinised himself and when he raises his head again, he’s surprised to find deep green eyes focused on his face.

“Sorry?” Louis says, automatically assuming he’s missed something the stranger has said. He’s attractive Louis notices distantly, taking in the pink full lips and tall lanky frame.

The man smiles, seemingly without thinking about it, a cold polite thing that doesn’t reach his eyes and that Louis hates automatically. He looks sad. “I just said hey.”

“Oh, yeah. Hey. I said that before, right?” Louis jokes. There’s something about the unblinking eyes staring at him that leave him undoubtedly perplexed. “Can I help you?” he still asks, smiling warmly to try and put the man at ease. He points at the black backpack on his shoulder. “You looking for a room?”

The man nods slowly, eyes going up to the sign above the cottage door introducing the B&B. “Hum, yeah. Do you work here?” he asks, pointing at the sign.  

Louis smiles proudly. “Yeah, I’m the owner. I can get you sorted,” he replies, approaching the door. Clifford, of course, sees the movement and gets in the way, excited to get back home.

“Come on Cliff,” Louis laughs, trying to push him away with his leg while reaching inside his jacket for his keys.

He feels a small pressure on his arm and when he looks to his right, his new customer’s hand is resting on his bicep. “I can hold that for you if that helps,” he offers, gesturing towards the potted English Ivy.

“Oh cheers, that’d be brilliant,” Louis replies, dropping the plant in the man’s arms without hesitation. “Sorry for making you work on your first day,” he jokes as he finally manages to find his keys. “I promise I don’t usually have guests do all the work,” he adds, twisting the key and pushing the cottage door open.

The man remains eerily quiet.

“Come in, come in,” Louis says, trying to push Clifford towards the living room with empty promises of a treat. “Off you go, you big baby, let me deal with this.”

“What’s his name?”

Louis closes the living room door behind Clifford before walking around the reception counter, squeezing himself into the small space and dropping his tote back on the floor with a loud clang.

“Clifford,” he replies with what he knows is probably too sappy of a smile. He can’t help it, he loves his big dumb dog. “And I’m Louis,” he says as he takes his denim jacket off, nervously smoothing the bottom of the white and blue Norwegian patterned jumper he’s got on. It’s a habit he can’t quite rid himself of, though he’s not fully sure why he feels anxious all of a sudden.

“You’re not Scottish,” the man notes instead of offering his name, putting the plant on the right corner of the counter, opposite of Louis’ embarrassing clutter.

“Well spotted,” Louis teases, grabbing the yellow phone from the top of the counter and putting it on the hidden shelf on his side to make some space. He moves the mouse of the dinosaur he doesn’t dare call a computer out loud, where people could hear, to wake the beast up. “Oh, please feel free to take your coat off. And drop your bag, it must be heavy.”

The man nods, taking the black backpack off and carefully putting it up against the counter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude, I was just surprised. This place is… well, I just thought it’d mostly be a small Scottish community is all.”

Louis nods. It’s a common mistake. “You weren't rude at all. Most people react the same, but we’re a wildly diverse community,” he says sarcastically.

The man snorts. “Right.”

“Oi! It’s true, we’ve even got gays,” Louis says, jokingly pointing at himself. He’s not usually in the business of outing himself to guests, but he can’t miss the opportunity to make fun of their ridiculously isolated, ridiculously white and ridiculously British community. He was the most exciting new local the island had in years when he first moved and he’s a white British male.

Surprisingly, that’s what makes the hint of a real smile appear on the stranger’s face. It’s just the uplift of the corner of his mouth, but…

“My mistake, then I can see I had some… flawed preconceived notions.”

They stare at each other in silence for a beat. Then two.

“So…” Louis says, drumming his fingers against the counter. When it becomes quite apparent that he’s going to have to take charge, he speaks again. “You’re looking for a room...?” he says, almost a question even though they’ve already established that very fact.

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay,” Louis nods, a bit flabbergasted at the man’s unwillingness to elaborate, then he opens the reservation system window with two clicks. “Well, autumn is always quiet on the island so you’ve definitely got some options in terms of room sizes and prices. How long are you thinking of staying? It’s okay if you don’t know, I know most backpackers have kind of a day to day approach to travel and as I said, it’s usually empty from October to the end of March so if you want to book a couple of nights and reevaluate, that’s completely fine.”

“You’re empty until the end of March?”

“Hum… Yeah. Usually.”

The stranger nods, seemingly to himself. “Yeah, that works,” he whispers before refocusing his eyes on Louis. “Can I rent a room until mid-March?”

At first, Louis thinks it’s a joke. “Mid-March?!” he exclaims.

“Please,” the man says, not a hint of mischief on his face.

“What are you going to do here on Fair Isle until mid-March mate?” Louis asks with a small incredulous laugh. “Not that I’m judging,” he adds quickly when he sees the way the stranger tightens his jaw, clearly uncomfortable.

“I just need… a break. A holiday,” he replies and there’s honest desperation in his green eyes that takes Louis by surprise. Like maybe he thinks he’s going to be turned away now and it’s an unbearable thought.

Louis nods, too enthusiastically, before speaking again. “Yeah, of course. It’s just most people pick sunnier places, you know? Crowded beaches and stuff.”

“I’ve had enough of crowded sunny places, thank you,” the man mumbles, head bowed towards the floor. With his face mostly hidden, Louis can still see the way his defined eyebrows raise sarcastically on the ‘thank you’. “Here’s fine,” he finally says, looking back up into Louis’ eyes. “Here’s perfect. If I can… ?”

This should raise so many red flags, yet Louis can’t find it in himself to be wary or suspicious. There’s so much he should ask, so much he _wants_ to ask, but he knows better. He can’t. Not yet. So he smiles kindly instead.

“Of course. As I said, plenty of vacancies to choose from. All rooms have ensuites, we’ve got a few double beds, a couple of queens and one king in the Master bedroom. Prices vary mostly with the size of the bed. And the view of course! The rooms without a view of the cliffs are less expensive, but since you’re staying so long we can sort something out. I can give you a deal or something. Normal rates include breakfast. Duh,” Louis adds, widening his eyes comically. “Bed and Breakfast, you know? But there’s extra fees if you want all three meals included. It’s an option. If not, I guess we can work something out for you to use the kitchen? There’s pretty much only one bakery slash coffee shop in the village if you’d prefer that –” Louis stops when the man raises a hand to silence him.

“Just give me the most expensive room, please. And full price on all meals and stuff. Least I can do is pay the proper fee if I’m going to be here for four months.”

Louis’ about to open his mouth to protest when the stranger shakes his head and disappears from view. Louis leans over the counter in time to see him zip his backpack pocket again before straightening up and dropping an open envelope full of cash on the counter.

“I know it’s common practice to pay a deposit and then the rest upon departure, but is it alright if I pay everything up front?”

Louis gulps. That’s a lot of money. “Yep,” he replies, popping the ‘p’ and looking back down to the computer screen to book the Master bedroom. “Until March 15 works for you?” he asks, typing a few things on the customer form when he gets a nod back. “And... what name should I put this under?”

“Harry… My name is Harry.”

Louis types the first name, trying not to feel unease at the fact that it’s all Harry seems willing to say. “Any last name that goes with that?”

“Any last name that goes with yours?” Harry replies and maybe it’s a trust thing, Louis speculates, observing the way he’s still fidgeting. He looks boyish somehow, in the cold autumn light coming in from the window next to the front door.

“Tomlinson,” Louis offers, hoping it will put Harry at ease.

Harry huffs and it almost sounds like a laugh. “Clifford Tomlinson,” he says. “That’s a great name.”

“Thanks, I thought of it meself.”

“It’s... Twist,” Harry says and the word seems unfamiliar in his mouth. “Harry Twist.”

“Great,” Louis says, typing it down, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head telling him it’s probably a fake name, that maybe he should worry. “Let’s get this payment sorted and then I’ll show you around.”

&

It takes them about ten minutes to get everything sorted, but soon enough, Harry is in possession of his room key. He’s bending down to grab his bag – probably planning on going straight to his room – when Louis stops him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You can leave that here for a bit,” he says, trying not to make it sounds like an order. “It’s just… I can show you around the cottage and the tower first? That way you’ll know where everything is and stuff?”  

“Oh,” Harry says quietly, stopping mid-way down. He straightens up, putting his hands in the pocket of his oversized jacket a bit awkwardly, letting Louis have a furtive peek at a tattooed wrist he somehow hadn’t noticed before. “Sure,” Harry shrugs. “That makes sense.”

He looks like he wants to be left alone, seems tired despite the lack of bags under his eyes. It’s in his posture and the way he smiles with his mouth, but not with his eyes. Not for the first time, Louis wonders what on Earth happened to this man – this boy really – for him to wash up on the distant shore of their small corner of the world with pockets full of cash and what clearly seems like a heavy heart.

“It won’t take much of your time, I promise,” Louis blurts out, almost an apology. “Then I’ll give you the wifi password and leave you to it.”

Harry doesn’t smile, but his posture seems to relax slightly. “It’s fine,” he says, taking one hand away from his pocket to start taking his scarf off. “I’d like a tour actually.” He puts the scarf on top of his backpack before taking a step away from it, his vans sliding wetly against the floor, little pieces of grass stuck to the sole. “And I don’t need the password. I don’t have a laptop with me, so.”

“Oh, well if you need a computer at some point, you can borrow mine no problem. Feel free to ask.”

Harry’s eyes turn slowly to the monster sitting proudly on the counter, the rest of his body entirely immobile. Then, he winces.

“Not that one!” Louis laughs, rubbing two fingers against his beard. “It can barely run the reservation system on a good day, let alone any web pages. I meant my laptop.”

“I won’t need it, but thanks.”

Louis eyes him for a second before shrugging. “There’s always the computer at the bakery if you’d be more comfortable,” he says, finally walking around the counter with his jacket in hand. “It’s kind of half a bakery, half an internet cafe really. Mrs Clark lets anyone use the computer as long as you’ve purchased something. She’s really lovely and her pastries are to die for.” Louis eyes the plant on the counter for a second. “Do you think this looks nice there? It’s not too crowded is it?” He twists the pot a smidge, biting his lower lip as he ponders it.

“Pardon?” Harry asks.

“That plant? I was going to put it in my bedroom, but it kind of looks nice here, right?”

Harry looks at the plant for a moment, widening his eyes with incredulity. Louis can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at succeeding in making him react with more than a heavily controlled microexpression.

“Hmmm,” Harry hesitates before shrugging. “It looks pretty… ?”

“Alright, I’ll leave it here, for now, I suppose. I can always move it later,” Louis says, mostly to himself, as he leads the way towards the living room. “Cliff is probably going to jump on you,” he warns over his shoulder before opening the door. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” Harry replies, following Louis inside the room.

Clifford doesn’t even twitch, comfortable in his spot on the rug where he’s sleeping soundly.

“Or not,” Louis deadpans, taking in the black curly blob. “Anyway, this is the living room slash library,” he explains, gesturing vaguely towards the sturdy wooden bookcases pressed against every wall. Apart from the top of the tower, this is probably the cosiest room on the property.

Harry hums, walking over the creaky wooden flooring to get to the fireplace. He lets his index trail against the top, turning his head sideways to read the titles of the books clumsily stacked on the shelves over it. Apart from the white rug and the three brown leather sofas, there’s only a big antique chest decorating the room. The star of the show are the books and the fireplace, as well as the view. There’s a red cushion on the windowsill, strategically placed there by Louis to encourage people to sit down there to read during the summer when the reading nook gets too crowded.

“This… This is lovely,” Harry says, turning around to face Louis. He sounds sincere and almost impressed. Not for the first time, Louis wonders what on Earth brought this man here. “You have a big book selection, and that fireplace is great.” His eyes widen earnestly as he takes in the room. “I’m a bit surprised,” he admits.

“And you haven’t even seen the best bits yet,” Louis teases as he starts moving towards the exit, taking a second to hang his denim jacket next to Clifford’s leash on the coat peg.

“Did you bring all those books with you when you moved here?” Harry asks, too nonchalant not to actually be curious as he grabs one of them off the shelf and starts flipping through it. “Are they yours?”

Louis laughs, leaning against one of the bookcases next to the door. He crosses his left leg over the right, folding his arms across his chest. “Nah. I mean, don’t get me wrong I always liked reading, but I didn’t start loving it until I moved here. You might be surprised to learn that there isn’t much to do here to entertain yourself… Most of these came from guests.”

“Lost and found?” Harry guesses without looking up from what Louis thinks is a biography of an American crime lord. A twenty years old backpacker left his entire collection of mafia-related fiction and non-fiction at the lighthouse a few summers ago in exchange for three British thrillers Louis had bought for 90p in a charity shop in Inverness. 

“Not exactly… Well… I suppose it started that way,” Louis admits. “There was only one bookshelf in this room at first and it wasn’t even full. It only had a few of my own books and what the previous owners had left behind when they moved out. It wasn’t much, but I liked the idea of leaving them in one of the shared spaces so people could borrow one during their holidays, you know? I suppose guests liked the idea because some of them started leaving their own books to add to the collection if they finished reading them here. Some of them were just forgotten in bedrooms or in the reading nook… I’ll show you soon,” Louis adds mysteriously when Harry’s head snaps up at the words ‘reading nook’, clearly curious. “Others were swapped –”

“Swapped?” Harry asks, taking a step forward. “What does _that_ mean?”

“Take a book, leave a book? If people want to leave with a book they haven’t finished, they can just swap it for one of their own. I don’t mind. As long as I’ve got options for everyone, I’m not that fussed about which books I actually own. Besides, I’m always checking second-hand bookshops whenever I’m on the mainland. And so do most of the other residents.”

Harry looks down at the book still in his hand, then bites his lower lip. “The locals buy books for you?” he asks before passing a hand through his short hair, messing it up even further. Some strands are curling against his temple in a way that makes Louis thinks it must look gorgeous when it’s longer.

Louis shrugs. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s for themselves too. There’s not an official library on Fair Isle, you know, so everyone kind of shares mine.”

“That’s… That’s actually really lovely.”

Louis nods, then smiles, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. It really is.” He moves away from the bookcase, holding his hand out for Harry to give him the book. Then, he puts it back on the closest shelf. “There’s absolutely no order in here, so don’t worry about putting stuff back where it belongs. We thrive on chaos here. Cliff especially,” Louis jokes, pointing at his sleeping, peaceful dog. “Oh! Before I forget,” he adds, pointing at the chest next to Clifford, “this antique is full of wool jumpers available for guests to use so please feel free to borrow whatever. It gets really cold at night with the power off. There’s battery-operated heaters in every bedroom so you should be fine, but still. Don’t be shy. They’re all clean, I swear.”

Harry’s eyes widen at the words ‘power off’ and they stay that way until Louis finishes his speech, his body rooted in place near the exit. “With the power off?” he repeats, like what Louis said doesn’t make any sense.

Louis’ eyes widen in turn at the slight tremor in Harry’s voice. Oh dear. “You do know that there’s no electricity on Fair Isle between half-past eleven at night and seven in the morning, right?” Louis asks, suddenly pushy and a bit nervous.

This man is strange, sure, and Louis isn’t sure he can fully trust him yet, but with the promise of four months of his most expensive room being rented – during winter !!!!!! –  the last thing he wants is for this piece of information to make Harry run for it.

Harry’s mouth opens, then closes and he gulps visibly. “Right,” he says, blinking his confusion away. “Right. Of course. I… I suppose I must have forgotten.”

“Forgotten?”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, looking more certain now as he’s getting used to the idea. “It just slipped my mind,” he insists. “Thank you for telling me about the jumpers. It’s a really good idea. You’re clearly prepared for every eventuality.”

Louis stares at him for a beat before answering. “I certainly try,” he finally settles for, before gesturing towards the door. “Moving on?”

Harry nods, following him back into the corridor, then into the next room which Louis quickly introduces as the dining room.

“There’s not much that’s interesting here, to be honest,” Louis explains as he lets Harry have a look around.

Two big windows facing the cliffs with about a dozen mismatched square tables and chairs, the space is a mix between a restaurant and family dining room. The most interesting piece of furniture in the room is the upright piano that Louis almost never plays but couldn’t bear to get rid of when the previous owners didn’t bother to leave with it. Each table is adorned with a handwritten wine/drinks list and right next to the door there’s a chalkboard standing sign where Louis usually writes down the weekly menu. He explains so quickly to his guest, pointing at the blank sign while Harry approaches one of the tables and starts fiddling with the list on it.

“Basically, I’d normally have fixed menus planned and if people are interested in eating in, I’d add it to their room bill, but since you’re staying so long and you’ve already paid for the food, it doesn’t have to be so strictly planned. We can always discuss the menus and everything. Pick stuff together...”

There’s a long moment of silence where Louis just looks at Harry who is seemingly lost in thought, his thumb rubbing against the piece of paper nestled between the salt and pepper shakers.

“Harry?” Louis finally asks, uncertainly. “Is it alright if we play it by ear for the weekly menus?”

“Uh?’ Harry says, dropping the wine list. He reaches for his own wrist, rubbing it with his thumb for a few seconds, before snapping a rubber band Louis hadn’t even noticed he was wearing against his skin. “Yeah, yeah,” he replies, clearly not knowing what Louis said. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees, choosing not to push it. If Harry’s not in the mood to talk or think that far ahead, it’s fine. Louis can sort it out by himself. He usually does and no guest has ever complained about his food, even though it’s not world class. “Let’s skip the kitchen,” Louis declares, feeling like maybe Harry is getting tired of this, of him, and wants the tour to be over as quickly as possible. “All you need to know is that it could give most flats a run for their money in terms of being tiny and cramped,” Louis explains as he leads Harry outside the dining room. They walk along the corridor in silence until they walk past the door that hides the stairs leading to the basement. “Downstairs is mostly storage. Like canned food and stuff like that. Alcohol and anything that doesn’t need to be chilled, basically. That’s where the washing machine is as well for whenever you need it. Soap and everything is downstairs too, so feel free to use whatever you need.”

Harry hums along as they finally reach the door leading to the annexed corridor and the next building.

“So, this actually used to be two buildings,” Louis explains, pushing the door open and walking into the corridor. “The cottage and then the actual lighthouse building where the keeper used to stay… They only built the annexe linking the two when the buildings were first converted into a Bed & Breakfast back in the 80s, so the guests wouldn’t have to brave the weather to get to the money shot, you know?” Louis looks over his shoulder just in time to catch Harry furrowing his eyebrows. “The top of the tower,” he explains with a bit more flair and drama than necessary, pushing the door to the next building open with his hip. He lets Harry walk in first. “It’s the spot with the best view after all! This door jams a little sometimes so don’t be afraid to give it a bit of a shove, alright?” he adds, following along. “The corridor is old and drafty and pretty much awful and could probably do with some renovations…” He points at the door behind with his thumb over his shoulder. “But hey, at least if it rains you’re not stuck going outside, you know? I sleep here by the way,” he says when they walk past his bedroom door to get to the bottom of the metal spiral staircase. “You’ll mostly have the cottage to yourself at night unless other customers show up, but yeah, if there’s an emergency or anything like that… this is where you can find me.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, docile. “Are we going up there?” he asks, pointing towards the top of the tower.

“‘Course we’re going up there.” Louis smiles widely. “After you,” he says, a bit mischievously.

It’s always the best bit, he figures. The way people’s face just illuminate with delight when they finally reach the top. Today is such a nice day as well, not a cloud in sight or any trace of fog. Just clear blue skies and what Louis knows is an incredible view of the cliffs and the water beyond.

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He starts taking the stairs two at a time immediately, clearly unbothered by the fact that they’re old, and they’re creaky and they’re spiralling. Louis, who has had to convince more than one guest that they are in fact perfectly safe, can’t help but feel surprised by Harry’s eagerness, his lack of fear. He didn’t even hesitate for one second and Louis figures this is probably why he’s here at all. For that unparalleled view up there that, even after years of living on Fair Isle, Louis just can’t get sick of.

At the top, the stairs emerge onto the side of the lantern room, right in front of the door that leads outside to the gallery deck and Louis smiles to himself when Harry stops as he reaches it, a small gasp escaping his lips as he lets go of the copper railing. Louis lets him have a moment, staring through the glass panels at the breathtaking view of the cliffs before he carefully presses his knuckles into Harry’s back to encourage him to move forward into the room.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just steps ahead, staring at the curved wooden bench that surrounds them, long enough to follow almost the entire circumference of the tower. The top of the bench is made of white cushion seats, ensuring it’s actually a cosy and comfortable place to snuggle with a book, or a camera, or a lover. The floor is obviously made of concrete, which Louis has always hated, but as he looks down at the fluffy white rug in the middle of the room that matches the one in the library, he can’t help but feel like he did a good job hiding the reality and discomforts of the lantern room. On it stands proudly a dark wooden chest that mostly serves as a coffee table, with a few discarded books and magazines permanently and effortlessly thrown on it. Louis winces with embarrassment when he notices the white enamel mug of tea he forgot on the table a few days prior.

“Cute,” Harry comments, pointing at the rainbow on it.

Louis blushes, grabbing the mug. “It’s usually much tidier,” he declares. “I wasn’t really expecting…” he trails off, their eyes meeting silently, Harry’s clouded with something that might be mistrust or anxiety. “Well, anyone really,” Louis admits and Harry's mouth tightens in what no one would call a smile, but the shadow in his eyes disappear.

“This place is incredible,” he whispers.

“Money shot,” Louis agrees with a smug smile.

“Yeah,” Harry nods. He takes a step forward before kneeling on the bench, pressing his nose against the window and taking in the cliffs and the sea, the empty horizon ahead. He seems almost hypnotised – so still Louis would think him asleep if his eyes weren’t wide open – unable to look away.

The wind whistles, Louis’ best friend, and he smiles as Harry inhales and exhales deeply.

“This is gonna be perfect,” he whispers to himself against the glass, almost like a prayer.

Perfect for what, Louis can’t help but wonder, but he forces himself to stay silent. There will be time for that later if Harry wishes to share, but for now, Louis knows there’s no point in hounding him for answers.

Finally, after a couple of minutes of contemplation, Harry gets up from the bench and starts playing with the elastic band on his wrist. He barely seems to notice he’s doing it, the movement absent-minded and distracted as he looks around the lantern room silently. His green eyes fall onto the tall lamp tucked at the end of the bench and his lips turn up in the corner at the sight.

“What’s the point of that if there’s no power at night?” he asks, a bit cheeky.

Louis raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, trust me, you’ll need it in the middle of January when you want to come up here to read and the sun sets at three o’clock. Or doesn’t rise until past nine. It’s dead useful. And if you actually do want to come up during our time off the grid, there are plenty of torches in there,” Louis says, giving the chest a small kick with his brown boot. “And in the living room. Well, the library, I mean. And in the bedrooms. And… pretty much everywhere in the B&B,” he finishes with a small laugh.

Torches are an essential part of life on Fair Isle. There’s no denying it. Louis is pretty sure most of his jackets and coats have at least one in one of the pockets, just in case. He leaves them around in every common room. Hell, Louis even ended up hiding extra ones under the sink of every ensuite a few years back just in case. Some inns or hotels have a copy of the bible in the nightstands, Louis’ place has extra batteries.

Harry nods. “That’s… uh. That’s good to know.” He pauses before pointing at the chest. “Any jumpers in there as well?” he asks and Louis can’t quite figure out if it’s meant to be teasing or not.

“A few,” Louis decides to reply seriously. “Mostly blankets though. It gets quite cold up here. Especially if you want to go out on the gallery deck.” Louis smirks. “I don’t know if you can hear it, but it gets really windy here?”

Harry shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpans, making Louis snorts.

“D’you wanna see outside?” he offers, pointing at the door leading to what many tourists jokingly refer to as Louis’ balcony.

Harry shakes his head. “Maybe later?” he offers. “I’m a bit exhausted. And still kind of jetlagged.”

“Jetlagged?” Louis can’t help but ask as he leads the way back downstairs, his dirty mug clenched tightly between his fingers.

Harry remains silent behind him, a tense looming presence against Louis’ back as they spiral back to the ground floor.

“Sorry,” Louis finally mumbles when the silence becomes unbearable, which seems to be about five seconds after he’s asked the completely inappropriate question. “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No… I… Sorry,” Harry says before clearing his throat. “I just… I don’t like talking about myself.” He pauses, before adding: “these days” in a whisper. “Feels like I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime already.”

“Oh,” Louis replies, not really understanding. He doesn’t push though, doesn’t really see the point when Harry is establishing such clear boundaries.

“Up until a few days ago, I was in LA for…” Harry hesitates.  “For work. And now I’m here. So I’m still adjusting.”

And that does take Louis by surprise. While Harry doesn’t look like the classic backpackers he usually hosts and he clearly isn’t lacking money, he certainly doesn’t look like the kind of man who jets off to the US for work. Louis tries to picture him in a boring suit sipping wine in business class and he can’t help but want to frown at the image. No, it doesn’t seem right.

They’ve reached the bottom of the stairs by now and when Louis turns around to face Harry he can’t help but feel a sudden twinge of sadness at the way he’s curled upon himself, trying to hide his face in a nonchalant way. Harry looks small, even though he’s a bit taller than Louis, made taller even by the fact he’s still on the last step while Louis is back on the floor. And yet, he’s drowning in his oversized coat, eclipsed by an excess of olive green fabric. He’s wearing washed blue jeans and a plain cream jumper underneath, everything about him screaming that he doesn’t want to be noticed, doesn’t want to be looked at.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Louis declares sincerely, surprising himself to find that he actually means it. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

He might have come in looking a little worse for wear, might have seemed a little shady, but Louis can’t help but feel like the guy needs a break. Besides, Louis is used to living with the unknown, the uncertainty. It’s what winter on Fair Isle is made of, nothing can be predicted. And it doesn’t scare Louis.

They walk back to reception in silence, not quite a heavy one, yet it’s not comfortable either. Harry follows him with his hands buried deep in his pockets, his head hung low, and every time Louis turns around to check he’s still there he gets the feeling that maybe Harry regrets speaking up, like maybe what he told Louis was a secret he didn’t mean to share. Louis isn’t sure where the feeling is coming from. Maybe it’s the way Harry hasn’t said a word since, or the way he won’t look at Louis anymore. Either way, he does his best to ignore it and once they reach the reception area, he grabs Harry’s bag before he can protest.

“Please follow me,” Louis declares, pointing to the creaky staircase to the right of the entrance.

The building clearly wasn’t designed with a B&B in mind and there’s only a tiny amount of space between the reception desk and the wall to get to the staircase. It’s always a bit of an issue, but despite many brainstorming sessions, there truly is no better space than the entryway for the reception. As it is, Louis very carefully walks past the desk, keeping in mind the fact he just added a plant to his decor as he carries Harry’s bag.

Suddenly, as he climbs up the stairs, Louis starts finding the silence a hint unbearable and he starts babbling about the island, giving Harry some random information about life in such a remote place. He’s in the middle of a passionate rant about the application process to move into available property when they reach Harry’s bedroom.

“Here we are,” Louis says, dropping the subject as he puts Harry’s bag on the floor next to the door. “Still got your keys?” he jokes and his smile drops a little when he realises Harry’s eyes are confused as he stares at the closed door.

“The National Trust of Scotland owns the island?” he asks, a sharp frown line digging itself into his forehead, like maybe what Louis has been saying is a puzzle he needs to sort out.

Louis grins. “Yeah? Did you not know that?” He pauses, looking Harry up and down slowly. “Did you not research the place before you picked us for your…” Louis hesitates, words like _holiday_ on the tip of his tongue. It’s what Harry used earlier, but it didn’t seem quite right. “Your… retreat?” he finally settles for. The way Harry’s body stiffens slightly confirms it.

He shrugs, looking down. “Not really,” he admits. “Just googled ‘most remote place in the UK’ to be honest. And this was the result.”

Louis smiles, a little sadly, at the sight of this tall man and the shadow clearly hanging over his head. “Yeah,” he agrees, voice more raspy than usual. He clears his throat. “That’s us.”

Harry smiles, polite as he fiddles with his room key.

“You really wanted to be far away, uh,” Louis comments gently.

Harry stops moving, stops playing with the keys, and he looks back up, straight into Louis’ eyes. “Is that what _you_ wanted?” he asks and on someone else’s lips, it would sound accusatory. Louis has many distant relatives who have thought similarly and have told him off for it, so he’s intimately familiar with the way his self-imposed exile can be perceived. “Is that why you left England and moved here? Because you wanted to be far away?”

It almost sounds like he’s asking permission to feel this way, like he needs someone to understand and relate, like he’s the loneliest person in the world who came to the loneliest place in the world to fix it. It’s almost enough to make Louis lie, to make him agree with Harry just to make him feel better.

“No,” he says softly. “I wasn’t running away from home. I was running towards it.”

Harry’s eyelids flutter as he looks back down for a second. “I understand.” He turns slightly to face his bedroom door, pushing the key into the lock and turning it. Once the door is open, he reaches down to grab his bag, putting one strap over his shoulder and giving Louis a side glance. “I didn’t want to be really far away,” he admits softly, “I _needed_ it.”

Then, he vanishes into his room.

&

The rest of the day, Louis barely notices he has a guest at all. Harry stays firmly locked in his bedroom – a silent but nonetheless impossible to ignore presence – not making a peep as afternoon morphs into evening. More than once, Louis stops what he’s working on to strain an ear towards Harry’s side of the building, trying to catch any sign of life from the now rented bedroom. Yet, there is nothing. It’s like Harry isn’t there at all, like maybe Louis made him up in a moment of weakness, when he was budgeting and worrying about the low season. But the stack of bills in the till don’t lie, nor does Harry’s blocky signature at the bottom of the room rental contract. Despite Harry’s discretion, Louis can’t stop his brain from circling back to the tall and effaced stranger in need of a break who unexpectedly entered his and Clifford’s life.

He’s somewhere between a mystery and a puzzle; someone Louis has the hitch to understand, to get to know.

Around six o’clock, despite no signs that Harry is getting restless, Louis abandons his to-do list and enters the kitchen to get their tea ready. He puts on a Spotify playlist curated by his elder sister, a mixture of oldies and recent tune most of which by artists he couldn’t name even if he was paid handsomely to, before starting to cook dinner for two. Quickly, while quietly humming to himself, he prepares an easy chicken casserole recipe that barely takes any effort but usually reaps tons of compliments from his guests.

Once the meal is ready, Louis spends a few minutes debating whether to bother Harry about it or not, before deciding to settle down on the table in the corner of the kitchen, big enough for only two and pushed against the window, where he usually eats when the B&B is full or his guests want privacy. He eats his half of the meal first, without guilt, telling himself Harry never said he was hungry or asked about usual meal times anyway. Then, he takes care of the dishes, checking the time on his phone every once in a while, wondering if he should knock on his guest’s door or not.

On one hand, Harry would probably come to him if he were feeling hungry. Louis did say he was available and he prepaid for his meals, after all. He’s a grown man. Louis doesn’t need to hold his hand or force-feed him. On the other hand, Louis does feel responsible for feeding him. But the clock ticks and Louis cleans up the kitchen and, suddenly, it’s past nine o’clock and there’s still no sign of Harry.

Finally, at half past nine, Louis grabs a yellow sticky note from behind the reception desk before making his way upstairs, scrawling a messy message and sticking it to Harry’s bedroom door.

_There’s chicken leftovers for you in the fridge in a blue bowl. Microwave won’t work past 11:30 though. Good night._

Then, Louis grabs a book from the library and squeezes it in the back pocket of his jeans before making his way to the tower with a steaming cuppa, Clifford on his heels, happily expecting a late night cuddle.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Louis comes back from his run with Clifford to find Harry on his way out. They awkwardly bump into each other in the entrance, Louis letting Clifford in first and surprising Harry as he was coming down the stairs. He startles a little, eyes widening when faced with Louis and Clifford’s presence. He’s bundled into the same long green coat from the previous night, his large black scarf hiding half of his face. Even from afar, Louis can see the shadows under his eyes, betraying the exhaustion that’s pouring out of him. He opens his mouth to ask if he slept well, though the answer seems obvious, when Harry looks down to his trainers, clearly avoiding eye contact. Louis gulps, uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck before fully getting in the building, leaving space for Harry to get out. He’s literally reaching out for the door handle when Louis remembers how terrible of a host he’s been.

“Hang on!” he says just as Harry takes one step outside. He stiffens, clearly not eager for morning chatter, but still turns around to face Louis, brows frowning a little when he sees him lift his finger for a second before running behind the reception desk. Louis starts rummaging through the mess behind the counter, clicking his tongue impatiently when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Finally, after a few seconds of moving rubbish around, Louis remembers he put it in one of the drawers and he successfully retrieves the key to the B&B. “Here,” he says, handing it to Harry once he’s no longer behind the counter. “It’s a key to the front door, just in case I’m not in at some point. That way you can come and go as you please, not that there’s much to do here,” Louis jokes. Harry’s face remains stony, not a muscle twitching and betraying amusement. “I uh…” Louis clears his throat. “I forgot to give it to you yesterday, I’m sorry about that.”

“Oh,” Harry says, emotionless but not unfriendly, his fingers careful against Louis’ hand as he grabs the key from him. He still isn’t really looking at Louis’ face, his eyes fixed on the small object instead. “Cheers,” he mumbles, finally looking up.

“Electricity should be back on any minute now, if you want a shower after your walk. And there’s a couple of breakfast options too,” he adds, “if you’re hungry.”

Harry smiles politely, clearly eager to leave but not wanting to be impolite. “Thank you,” he says with a nod. “I mostly eat fruit for breakfast so don’t worry about going through the trouble of making something complicated for me, please.”

Louis smiles as he starts to take off his jacket, revealing a grey jumper underneath. “It wouldn’t be trouble at all, but I’m a cereal man meself in the morning, so I understand.”

Harry nods, standing awkwardly in the doorway for a few seconds in silence before putting the key in his pocket. He’s wearing the same blue jeans from the day before, a clue as to the fact he’s probably not going to be jogging this morning as Louis did, and once the key is nestled safely into its back pocket, Harry nods again, vaguely in Louis’ direction. Then he turns around, gesturing towards the reception.

“Alright,” he says half-heartedly, waving Louis off. “Thanks.”

“See ya later!” Louis calls, but Harry’s already closed the door behind him. He hums pensively once Harry has left, looking towards Clifford. “Strange fella, uh?” he asks the dog.

Unsurprisingly, Clifford doesn’t bark in response, just stares at Louis with big dark eyes.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Louis agrees, “too early to tell.” Then, he walks back to his bedroom to take a shower.

&

Louis is at reception buried in some admin when Harry comes back two hours later. He gives no indication as to where he’s been, whether he went down the cliffside and walked along the beach, or if he took some time to visit the village, or even to walk further up north towards the opposite tip of the island. Instead, he silently walks in like he’d rather not be seen, like having a physical body that can be looked at causes him pain, head bowed down awkwardly and lingering close to the walls. He barely responds to Louis’ polite greeting, offering him a tiny nod as he goes straight for the stairs and vanishes from view.

Sternly, Louis reminds himself that there’s no point in speculating. He can’t help the way his curiosity is fully piqued though, can’t help but wonder what on Earth happened for a young man like Harry to need to escape so badly that he’d run away to the very end of their island and beyond to hide there. It’s none of Louis’ business of course, but he wonders.

Twenty minutes later, when Harry comes back down with wet hair, Louis is still wondering. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a black jumper with colourful planets going down from his left shoulder to his right hip in a line across his chest. He’s also carrying a thick brown leather notebook, tied closed with a thin piece of rope and with what looks like a fancy pen hanging from it. There seem to be doodles on the notebook, scribbles and what not, but Louis doesn’t get a very good look before Harry switches the hand he’s holding it with, hiding it fully from Louis’ view.

When he passes in front of the reception desk, he gives Louis a proper look, their eyes meeting as he smiles politely with no warmth. Harry gestures towards the corridor leading to the tower. “I’m going to…” he says, hovering in front of the desk for a second, seemingly waiting for Louis’ permission.

“Cool,” Louis says, as friendly as possible, before looking back to his paperwork. There’s no point in making Harry more uncomfortable than he already is.

If it’s solitude he came to Fair Isle to look for, Louis can definitely let him have that.

Instead of worrying about how his guest is getting on in the lantern room, Louis loses himself in his work for a couple of hours, tidying up both his paperwork and his actual workspace, trying to make the reception area a bit more presentable. It’s a routine he goes through every couple of weeks, each time promising himself that it’s the _last time_ he lets the desk get so filthy and filled with rubbish, only to start all over again when it inevitably gets messy after a short while. He’s not an untidy person per se, it’s just that he has to maintain all the shared spaces of the b&b so immaculate that whatever area is only  _his_ , such as behind reception and his bedroom, tends to get left behind during the cleaning process. He stops once the reception desk is spotless and he’s watered his plant, only then noticing the rumblings of his stomach.

A quick look at his phone tells him it’s past noon already and Louis goes straight to the kitchen, ready to feed himself after getting all that work done. He makes two ham and cheese sandwiches quickly, eating his in three easy bites while he waits for the water to boil. When the water is ready, he grabs an old touristy mug decorated with a drawing of Nessie and Scotland written in retro yellow letters underneath. He drops a tea bag in the mug and pours water over it, then he hesitates for a second while staring at the fridge. Finally, he shrugs and opens it, getting milk out to pour a few drops in Harry’s tea. Considering it’s tea he didn’t have to make for himself, Louis assumes Harry won’t complain about it.

Then, he grabs the sandwich plate and the mug, making his way to the tower. Once he’s at the bottom of the staircase, Louis carefully starts climbing, slow to make sure he’s not going to drop either item in his hands, regretting his life choices about halfway up when he stumbles a little and doesn’t have a free hand to grab the railing. Luckily, he manages to regain his balance and not spill anything, taking the last few steps even slower now.

When he finally reaches the lantern room, Louis is surprised to find it empty. He stops at the top of the stairs and frowns, his eyes going straight to the chest, to where Harry’s journal lays open, forgotten, with the fancy pen nestled between the pages. A second later, Louis looks up and startles when he notices a tall figure on the gallery outside. He sighs in relief, shaking his head a little at his own silliness for assuming Harry had magically vanished. He allows himself a second to observe him in silence, to watch the way he’s leaning against the railing, his posture more relaxed than Louis has seen so far.

Harry’s back is not fully facing Louis, his body angled slightly in a way that gives Louis a good look at the way he’s pushed the sleeves of his jumper up his forearms, his naked skin directly against the railing as he nervously plays with his own fingers. He’s pinching the skin for a few seconds before starting to massage his hands a little. Every once in a while, he stops entirely to reach for the rubber band on his wrist, twisting it between his fingers almost absently. Once, Louis is sure he sees him snapping it sharply against the delicate skin of his wrist, but soon enough he’s back to massaging his hands. Harry seems deep in thoughts, unbothered by the way the wind is messing up his curls, eyes fixed on the seemingly never-ending horizon, the sea that goes on and on and on.

Louis looks away, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment and in an effort to stop creeping around, he walks fully into the room to put Harry’s lunch aside. As he leans down to set both the plate and the mug on the chest, Louis’ eyes stray away from the fruit of his labour and lands onto the pages of his guest’s journal, catching words like _gotta get better_ and _crowded rooms with empty souls_ before he realises what he’s doing and his eyes widen automatically in shame.

The curiosity to read on is stronger than Louis would have thought, considering the importance he’s always placed on privacy as the eldest of seven siblings, and he physically has to move away from the journal to stop himself from snooping.

He shakes his head in disbelief.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles to himself, chastising, before walking towards the door leading to the gallery.

Yet, he still hesitates in front of the door, not wanting to pry more than he already has. It’s not like the sandwich Louis made could get cold. If he left it there and went back to work silently, Harry could still enjoy it whenever he’s ready to eat. And the tea doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, Louis could just drink it and make Harry a new cuppa later. Or Harry can make himself a cuppa whenever he wants because he knows where the kitchen is and he’s not a child.

 _This is ridiculous,_  Louis thinks, shaking his head before knocking on the glass, hoping he’ll be less intrusive if he warns Harry of his presence this way.

It backfires immediately, Harry startling and turning around with a panicked look on his face.

Louis grimaces, raising both hands in what he hopes is a placating gesture and he smiles a little when he sees Harry sigh in relief, one hand going up to his hair, trying to fix the mess on top of his head with rosy cheeks. He opens the door, walking into the lantern room with a hesitant look on his face as Louis walks two steps backwards to let him in.

“Can I help you?” Harry asks politely, eyes curious when they meet Louis’, and he can’t help but smile in response.

“I think it’s me who can help you mate,” Louis replies. He points at the chest with his thumb over his shoulder without looking back. “Thought you might be hungry so I’ve made you something.”

“Oh,” Harry exhales, eyes going beyond Louis’ shoulder to where he's pointing and there’s a hint of worry on his face, his gaze focused on a specific spot ahead.

When Louis looks back without fully turning around, the first thing he sees from the corner of his eyes is the open journal. He gulps, trying to swallow back his discomfort, to stop himself from doing something extremely stupid. He opens his mouth, about to confess everything, to admit he’s read a few lines accidentally. Then, thinking better of it, he says: “Made you a cuppa too,” instead.

What’s the point after all? It’s not like Louis really read anything of importance. It’s not like he knows what any of it means. He barely caught a glimpse between doodles, half scribbled lines and redacted sentences. He would never read anyone’s diary. Especially not after the now infamous incident where he mocked his sister Lottie for something she’d written in the pink Barbie journal her bff had given her for her ninth birthday. The journal came with a tiny gold padlock that she had forgotten to lock one evening and it had laid forgotten on the kitchen table amidst everyone’s homework, too tempting for Louis’ inquisitive nature to resist. The punishment from his mother had been painful, but it was Lottie’s betrayed face, and the weeks she spent no longer trusting her big brother, that left the biggest impact on him. If growing up in a full household taught him one thing, it’s to respect people’s boundaries fully and without question.

Today’s wandering eyes were a mistake, a half second accident, so small and unimportant it’s not worth mentioning.

“I didn’t know how you take it so I put a dash of milk,” Louis continues when Harry doesn’t reply.  “Hope that’s okay.”

Finally, Harry’s eyes soften. He gives Louis a tiny nod, lips barely turning up in the hint of a smile. “That sounds perfect actually.”

“You’ll probably need it after spending time out without a jacket,” Louis teases. “Wind gets quite cold, even on the nicest of days.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m okay,” he replies, wrapping his arms around himself, one on top of the other, and starts stroking his jumper with his thumb right above his elbow.“Tea sounds good though. And food.” He pauses, both of them standing awkwardly in front of each other. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

Louis shrugs. “Part of the all-inclusive package,” he teases easily, waiting a second for Harry to react. When it becomes obvious that he won’t, Louis nods to himself, drumming his fingers against his thighs. “Alright, well I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Alright,” Harry replies.

They stand silently for a beat.

“Okay, bye,” Louis says, turning around and sprinting down the stairs.

He’s halfway down when he realises he’s forgotten to ask Harry something and he’s back in the lantern room just in time to see him close his journal firmly with a determined look on his face.

“Me again!” he calls awkwardly from the stairs. “Forgot to ask, is half past six okay for dinner? I can have that ready for you in the dining room if you want?”

Harry nods. “Sounds good.”

“Any specific requests?” Louis asks. “I can bring a menu up if you want? Or just tell you the options I guess?”

Harry shakes his head. He sits down, grabbing his plate and balancing it delicately on his thighs. “I’m not a picky eater and I’m not allergic to anything, so…” He shrugs. “Surprise me?”

&

A few hours later, a frantic Louis is pacing the length of his kitchen, heart beating dramatically in his chest as he ponders the meaning of “surprise me”.  

Is Harry expecting something amazing? Innovative? Revolutionary? Unexpected? Weird? What did he even mean by the phrase?

Louis is far from a bad cook, he knows that, but he’s not a chef either, preferring to focus his energy on homely and comforting recipes to warm up the hearts of his guests and to give them a family establishment feel from his place, even though he definitely runs it by himself. He’s a family man though, no matter how far away from them he lives and Louis thinks his Bed & Breakfast should reflect that. More to the point, he doesn’t cook to impress, he cooks to nourish. Both stomachs and souls. If there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that Harry’s soul seems to be in need of a lot of nourishment. And he wants to be surprised on top of it all?

It’s an awful lot of pressure for one meal.

Louis looks one more time into his fridge, biting into his lower lip as he mentally riffles through his favourite recipes, matching them to what’s actually in his kitchen. He’s certainly not lacking options or ingredients. Yet, he still can’t make up his mind.

It’s absurd is what it is. Harry Twist is going to be staying at the South Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast for almost four months. He’ll probably get to try each and every recipe in Louis’ repertoire three times over during that time unless someone starts diversifying the menu real quick. It shouldn’t be an issue at all. Even if Louis manages to impress him – or, more specifically, surprise him – tonight, soon enough he’ll see beyond the mirage and get to experience Louis’ true and authentic cooking a.k.a. the boring, yet beloved recipes he always relies on.

As soon as the thought enters his mind, Louis sighs, shoulders dropping. Seems silly to make such a fuss, considering.

“Who fucking cares?” he tells the open fridge, closing the door with flourish before grabbing a pan, twirling on his way to the sink. He fills it with water before setting it on the stove to boil.

At half past six sharp, Louis enters the dining room with a fuming plate of his fancy variation on a classic mac & cheese. Though fancy is probably a bit of a strong word considering it only has some bacon and cauliflower to distinguish it, but still, Louis’ never had any complaint for taking liberties with the word.

He smiles when he sees that Harry is already seated, pleased to find him so punctual. He’s at a table near one of the big windows, nose buried in a novel opened flat on the white tablecloth, spine already so broken Harry barely has to hold it. Louis hums to himself, hardly seeing the point in picking that particular spot considering the sun set a few hours before, the effects of setting the clock back already making themselves known even though it’s only been a few days. Of course, things are only going to get worse as autumn transforms into winter and soon enough, they’ll barely have a few hours of bright afternoon before the sun disappears again into what always feels like a never-ending night. Louis bitterly remembers his first year on the island, remembers the shock to his system when they started losing daylight at three o’clock in the afternoon, remembers how hard it was for him to adjust at first. He wonders how Harry is going to find the place when he realises how bad December and January get. He wonders if maybe he’ll regret picking Fair Isle for his… break when he could have picked a tropical holiday destination somewhere rather than their cold and desolate island. He wonders if it’s going to be a harsh surprise for him the way it was for Louis when he first moved. Or if maybe he came prepared for the dreariness of winter, armed with the knowledge of what he is about to endure. Considering the confused – and a tad alarmed – look on his face when Louis mentioned the lack of electricity on the island at night, he suspects Harry hasn’t done the necessary research. He’s certainly not going to be the one to warn him off. The money is too good to be true for Louis to start chasing away his only customer.

And no matter how silent and elusive Harry has been, the company is kind of nice too.

“Good book?” Louis asks when he’s reached the table, biting down a smirk when Harry jumps a little, startled at the interruption. “Sorry,” he apologises politely because it’s the customer service thing to do. “Mmm, I see you’ve made a friend,” he adds when he notices Clifford sleeping under the table at Harry’s feet.

He’d wondered where the cheeky bugger had run off to.

Harry looks up at Louis for a second, still looking startled, before glancing down at his book, then at Clifford.

“Your dog doesn’t really strike me as the type to struggle to make friends,” Harry chooses to say, raising a delicate eyebrow to emphasises his point. “I don’t know how flattered I should feel by his display of affection.”

It actually takes a second for Louis to realise Harry is joking.

“Oi!” he warns, putting the hand not holding Harry’s plate on his hip in an attempt to look offended. “Are you saying my dog has no standards?”

Harry shrugs innocently enough. “I’m just saying, I don’t know that I should feel special. We barely know each other and he’s been all over me ever since I’ve left the tower. Seems like it doesn’t take much to win his favour.”

Louis widens his eyes. “I’ll have you know…” he begins with emphasis, “that you are absolutely correct. That boy loves a cuddle more than I do and I am a huge cuddle bug. I wish I could tell you winning Cliff’s affection reveals something really profound about your character because he only picks the elite to befriend but that would be a big fat lie.”

To Louis’ surprise, Harry actually laughs. “I suspected,” he jokes back.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t feel flattered or lucky because he’s a star. Truly the best boy in the world. Regardless of how low his standards might be.”

Harry nods, looking serious all of a sudden. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he tells Louis, a little conspiratorially. “ And yeah,” he agrees, though Louis doesn’t know to what.

He frowns, opening his mouth to ask what Harry is talking about when he adds: “the book isn’t bad.”

“Oh,” Louis says, shaking his head. He’s the one who asked, he supposes that should have been obvious. Subtly, he tries to stretch his neck to catch a glimpse of the cover but Harry still has the book wide open, completely flat against the table. Even a glimpse of the text to help him guess is hard to achieve. After a few awkward seconds of contortion, Harry seems to take pity on him and he moves the book in Louis’ direction, allowing him to have a proper look.  

Louis smiles, silently thanking Harry as he reads the familiar title.

“Found it in the lantern room,” Harry explains, not even a hint of embarrassment on his face at being caught reading one of the quite large collections of smutty romance novels Louis likes to keep around for guests. It’s one of – if not the – best genre for holiday readings, after all.

Louis likes that kind of confidence in a man.

He hums, interested. “Not a bad choice,” he says confidently, finally putting the bowl down on the table, not quite between Harry’s utensils since the book is still in the way. “I’m not one to get titillated by straight sex, but I gotta admit those steamy scenes are well written.”

Harry shrugs, bit of a smirk on his face. “Haven’t gotten that far actually. The Duke is being swoon-worthy but she hasn’t quite succumbed to his advances yet. I’ll have to get back to you though.”

“I expect a full book report by next week,” Louis jokes, leaning his hip on the table and folding his arms across his chest. “With APA citations, of course.”

“Don’t expect too much, I barely finished secondary school,” Harry half mumbles, half-jokes, before widening his eyes dramatically, looking straight at Louis with pure panic flashing across his face. Like he’s said too much already, has revealed something deeply secret he wasn’t meant to share. Like Louis would maybe make fun of him for something like that. “No, I mean. I… It’s – ” Harry fumbles through, clearly trying to salvage something.

“Please,” Louis interrupts, uncrossing his arms and putting what he hopes is a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I… I struggled with academia myself. I wouldn’t judge…” Louis trails off awkwardly. The silence stretches uncomfortably between them and after a beat too long, Louis takes his hand off Harry’s body and steps away from the table. “Just a top ten scenes would do just fine, you know?” he adds jokingly, trying to ease the tension.

It seems to work, if only a little. Harry’s shoulders drop in what Louis hopes is relief. He’s still tensed, but then, Louis doesn’t think he’s ever seen him not be since he arrived at the B&B the day before, body wound up in so many different ways Louis doesn’t know what to think of it. But he’s not at his most tensed now, which he’ll have to take as a win, no matter how small it is.

“Right,” Harry says, looking down at his meal. “That works,” he agrees, putting his book completely aside and giving the pasta dish a good sniff. “What’s this then?”

“My famous mac & cheese.”

“Famous?” Harry asks, grabbing his fork to dig in.

“Oh yes. Renowned on the island really. Folks from the village come and dine here when it’s on the menu. To be fair, it’s probably because they get lazy and don’t want to cook and there’s technically not a proper restaurant on Fair Isle. Unless you count the bakery/coffee shop... Which, I guess we have to? Otherwise, we have to admit that there’s no restaurant on the island and that… is depressing as hell. But still. I like to think it’s for the intricacies of the meal that they come running to me. And not just the depressing lack of options.”

Harry frowns. “Well… What do you do if you fancy a proper takeaway?” he asks, putting his fork down and looking actually concerned. “Like… say you get a craving? You want a curry at 2 am?"

“I wait until the next day,” Louis admits. “Then I cook it for myself. Then I pretend I didn’t so the psychological effect is the same.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely not,” Louis laughs.

“But… You don’t even have a chippy?”

Louis slowly shakes his head, smile turned into an involuntary frown. He does miss chippies.

“That’s rough,” Harry acknowledges.

“Yeah, you should see me when I get to the mainland. I just… straight up gorge myself. It’s really undignified. Last time I visited my family in Donny, I took my sister on a junk food tour. New restaurant every meal. The whole family had been waiting weeks for me to cook some stuff for them and all I wanted was Nandos and KFC.”

Louis laughs as he remembers the horror on Lottie’s face when she’d realised what he’d been planning. In his defence, it had been the longest he had spent on Fair Isle without a break, too busy with the b&b to take a holiday, preferring to invite the whole family for short visits whenever he had some room than make the trip himself.

“I get that,” Harry agrees. “I get super snacky when I’m abroad,” he reveals, suggesting again that he’s well-travelled. “Just start craving all the British snacks. At least when I’m in LA, I have a favourite British snack store, but not every country has that.”

At least five questions come to mind straight away, followed by a dozen more, but Louis swallows them back down, not wanting to come across as invasive.

“Well, I don’t know how you do it,” Louis replies instead of asking why and how Harry has travelled so much.

Maybe he’s one of those rich heirs who has had everything paid for him by big shot CEO parents, private-jetted around the globe since he was in nappies and now reaching a middle-life crisis early because he’s never had to work for anything a day of his life and he feels worthless….

Louis mentally shakes his head at himself. The last thing he should be doing is speculating wildly – and most likely inaccurately – about his guest.

“Thank God for Mr Dunn’s grocers and the snacks he sells because I couldn’t deal without all my snacks. I mean, I basically live off caramel wafers at this point.” Louis tilts his head. “Not something I’d thought I’d admit to a stranger,” he adds, partly to himself, “but here we are.”

“Yeah, I saw the wrappers behind reception,” Harry says, which is a bit embarrassing. Then, he takes a huge bite off his plate, tongue first. He hums happily, praising Louis with his mouth half full. “S’good.”

“Glad you like it,” Louis says, reaching for the wine list from Harry’s table. “Listen, I’ll leave you to it, wouldn’t want to bother you while you eat, but do you want anything to drink before I disappear?” he offers, gesticulating with the card. “I’m out of a few things, to be honest, but I’ve still got quite a nice wine and beer selection, so if you’d like to order anything feel free. No extra charge obviously,” Louis adds, putting the card next to Harry’s plate.

Louis isn’t sure how but suddenly it’s like the temperature dropped, a cold chill enveloping the room as Harry tenses sharply, none of the warmth of their previous banter remaining. In a flash, he’s completely closed off, face expressionless, eyes guarded and it occurs to Louis that Harry is probably used to protecting himself this way when things turn sour. Though Louis isn’t sure what he did to trigger it.

The tip of his finger brushes against the wine list, hesitant, uncomfortable, before he firmly pushes it away from him.

“That won’t be necessary.”  

Everything from the tone of his voice to his decisive posture, to the blank look on his face, tells Louis he shouldn’t push it. That he shouldn’t ask.

“Are you sure?” It’s out of his mouth before Louis can fully realise what he’s said, the urge to know too strong to help himself. And he had been so good so far, chatting aimlessly about a variety of inconsequential topic to put Harry at ease and make him feel welcome. “It wouldn’t be a bother at all to get you something?” Louis insists, figuring out he might as well go all the way now that he’s started.

“Yes,” Harry says tensely. “I’m sure.” He inhales deeply. Then exhales. “I’m really sure,” he insists, somehow even firmer this time. “Sorry, I… uh. I actually don’t drink,” he admits. “At all.” He pauses for the longest time. “Anymore.”

 _Oh_ , Louis thinks, knowing better than to insist now. He flushes a little in embarrassment at his previous rudeness, grabbing the wine list so quickly he sends it flying across the room, making him close his eyes and purse his lips as he tries to let go of the feeling of total mortification.

“Of course,” he says, eyes still closed. “No problem at all,” he adds kindly, opening his eyes again and smiling awkwardly.  “I can get you a juice…?” he offers clumsily. “A mock...tail?” he adds, firmly aware that he doesn’t really have ingredients, or recipes for that, basic as he is in his alcoholic and nonalcoholic consumption.

“Water would be great actually.” Harry, bless him, takes him out of his misery with a closed off face, his body language screaming how much he’d rather be anywhere else than having this conversation with Louis.

He grabs his fork again, digging into his plate without looking back at Louis who is just hovering near his table like a _bloody idiot_.

“Yep. Yep. Of course. Coming right up,” Louis babbles as he walks away, bending down to grab the discarded wine list before he exits the room.

A few hours later, after he’s done the dishes and some meal prep for the next few days, and when he’s one hundred percent certain that Harry has gone to bed, Louis silently goes back to the dining room, carefully grabbing every wine list from every table, putting them away for later. He knows he’s made a mistake by pushing Harry’s boundaries and that this couldn’t possibly erase what he did, but from now on, his guest is going to be fully comfortable. As much as possible.

As he closes the door behind himself and starts walking back to his bedroom, Louis can’t help but think there’s clearly a story there, not so well hidden in the way Harry shut himself down, in the coldness of his body language, in the way he seemed ashamed at his admission…

&

October vanishes into November, days blending into each other as Louis and his new guest settle into a quiet routine. Every morning, Louis goes on a run with Clifford, coming back to the lighthouse just in time to watch Harry disappear god knows where, out on long walks while Louis takes care of various maintenance stuff around the b&b. When he comes back, Harry disappears in the living room or in the lantern room with sometimes a book, sometimes his journal until Louis bothers him for a bit to bring him his lunch. Then, at half past six every day, Louis serves dinner before retreating to the kitchen, eating his own meal by himself on the tiny table in there while leaving Harry to dine alone in the big empty dining room. They don’t really say anything to each other. After what happened on the second night, Harry, in particular, is exceptionally silent. He’ll hum politely when Louis tries to tell a joke, always quietly thanking him for the food, but never wanting to take the conversation further, never really responding. In the morning, Harry will always nod at him if their paths accidentally cross, but every single attempt Louis has made to banter has been falling horribly flat ever since what Louis has now dubbed the “dining room incident”. He can’t help but feel like he pushed too far too fast and now lost his chance to truly connect with Harry. Whatever glimpse Louis might have briefly caught of the person beneath the facade is long gone, protected again under a wall of silence.  

It’s alright though. Louis isn’t in the business to make lifelong friends and despite the fact that the weight of Harry’s loneliness is so heavy even Louis can feel it sometimes, it isn’t actually any of his business. Harry said he needed a break and needed to be far away. The South Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast seem to be offering that to him. Louis considers his work to be done.

Except it’s been over a week now since Harry first rented the room and he looks… He looks like a ghost, like he’s haunting himself, unable to shake the cloud hanging over his head and it really really isn’t any of his business, Louis knows that, but it breaks his heart a little, to witness that every day. He may have ruined his chance at friendship with Harry by being too inquisitive too quickly, but that doesn’t mean he has to watch him suffer without helping at least a little.

Hence, a half-assed plan is born, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, at half five when Louis’ brain doesn’t have a filter yet.

He comes back from his run with Clifford that day with the idea mostly formed and he spends his ten minutes shower fleshing it out, fully ready to execute it once Harry stumbles down the stairs half asleep in a big lavender jumper that Louis knows was in the chest in the lantern room.

If anything, Harry is starting to feel at home at the b&b at least, borrowing books and clothes without asking permission.

“Hey,” Louis greets, just as he has every morning since Harry arrived.

As predicted, Harry nods, polite, but looking shy, going straight for the front door.

“Sorry to be a bother,” Louis begins, nervously hoping to sound as authentic as possible. He’s usually a good enough liar if he needs, not that he makes a habit of it, but it feels like the stakes are higher today, worried as he is to offend Harry even more than he already has.

Harry, to his credit, turns to face him, hands clasped tightly together. “Yes?” he asks, slow and cautious.

“I’ve been really busy with lots of paperwork this morning and haven’t been able to walk Clifford yet,” he lies as smoothly as possible, trying to look sheepish. “I’m pretty much the worst dog father ever today, so I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind taking him along on your walk?”

He waits a little, observing the way Harry’s eyes widen at the request.

“Oh.”

“I know it’s an imposition,” Louis adds, now realising maybe Harry doesn’t really just wander aimlessly when he leaves the b&b, that maybe he goes into the village without Louis knowing and that dragging along a pet that’s not his own might not be his idea of a fun time. “I know that it is. And obviously you’re not here to work for me or help out or anything like that, but I thought I’d ask. You really wouldn’t have much to do, I promise. He’s a good dog. He’ll keep close to you, you don’t even need to put his leash on, technically. I mean, he’s trained to listen to you if you hold it… Very well behaved, I promise! And everyone in the village knows him so if you’re going to get breakfast at the bakery, it really won’t be a problem. I just don’t want him to be stuck in with me for another few hours, you know?”

It would make a lot of sense for Harry to ask why Louis doesn’t simply take a small break to walk his own dog, considering it’s the most logical solution to this made up problem, but Louis hopes that his rambling will convince Harry without him thinking too much about it.

“Sure,” Harry finally replies after a beat of tense silence. “Clifford can come.”

“Oh thank you, Harry. I truly owe you one!” Louis replies exaggeratedly, stepping from behind the reception desk, running to the living room to grab Clifford’s leash. When he comes back with it, the dog shows clear signs of interest, nosing at Louis’ shins, pushing at him a little.

They’ve literally just come back from their usual run and he has no reason to act like such an excitable puppy when he hasn’t been one in years, but Louis sends a silent thank you to the universe for Clifford’s willingness to participate in the deception.

If Louis can’t become Harry’s friend then maybe his dog can. Everyone needs companionship, after all, Louis thinks as he watches them both walk away from the lighthouse through the window. Harry’s shoulders permanently hunched forward, both hands buried into the deep pockets of his oversized jacket. Clifford is trotting along happily, bumping his head into Harry’s legs once in a while and eventually, just as they’re about to disappear down the cliffs, Harry caves and bends down to pet him. Clifford jumps on him in response, front paws reaching up Harry’s torso.

Something deep within Louis loosens in relief when it clearly makes Harry laugh. Soon enough, they’ve both vanished, making their way down to the beach, unaware of the man looking at them with interest.

&

For the first twenty minutes after they’re gone, Louis keeps glancing out of the window, hoping he’ll miraculously be able to see through the cliffs and onto the beach, but soon enough, actual work demands his attention and he forgets all about his plan in favour of being productive.

It’s not until a couple of hours later, when Harry and Clifford walk back into the living room where Louis is sprawled on the floor surrounded by receipts, that he remembers he was concerned in the first place.

Harry clearly startles when he walks in, having not expected the sight of Louis in sweatpants and a t-shirt resting on his belly on the rug and tapping a pen against his chin.

“Oh,” he says, grabbing Clifford by the collar to stop him from running through Louis’ piles of receipts. “Sorry,” he adds, kneeling and wrapping an arm around Cliff’s torso when the dog strongly insists on saying hi to his master. “Didn’t realise you’d be in here.”

“Thanks for holding him back,” Louis replies. “Took a while to organise these, not gonna lie. And he’d blow through them in a second.”

“That’s alright,” Harry replies. His cheeks are red, a healthy flush on his face, and he doesn’t look as upset as this morning.

Louis wouldn’t claim that it’s Clifford’s presence that makes him look a little less troubled, but hopefully, the dog’s energy and joie de vivre brought a bit of sunshine to the start of Harry’s day.

“I was just gonna…” Harry gestures with the leash in his hand and Louis smiles.

“Yeah, you can just leave it there,” he replies, pointing at the floor. It’s not like he’s kept the room tidy. “I can take care of it later.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees, dropping it right where Louis pointed. “I’ll close the door behind me,” he adds, getting up and leading Clifford towards the exit.

“He was alright, yeah? Didn’t bother you too much?” Louis can’t help but ask, just as Harry is about to leave.

“He’s a good dog,” Harry simply says, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face that’s enough for now.

Louis grins. “Thanks for taking care of him, I owe you one.”

Harry shakes his head, smiling politely at him before leaving with Clifford in tow.

&

The next morning, when Harry exits the b&b with sleepy eyes, Louis is ready for him. He seems dressed for a run this time around, with grey shorts and sporty leggings underneath as well as proper sneakers on. Though he’s still wearing a bulky cream cable-knit top, so who is Louis to assume anything. Still, it’s an interesting change from what he usually wears on his way out. One Louis can’t help but notice.

“Mornin’,” Louis calls, dropping the sponge he was using to wash windows into a red bucket, soapy water splashing over a little and falling onto his vans. “Shit,” Louis says with a laugh, wiggling his foot a little to get the foam off his shoe.

“Hey,” Harry calls back with a small nod in Louis’ direction.

Louis reaches down for Clifford’s leash he’d left next to the bucket, holding it out towards Harry sheepishly. “Would you mind?” he asks with an awkwardly wide smile.

Right on cue, Clifford starts wagging his tail excitedly at the thought of a walk along the beach.

Louis has the best, most manipulative dog on the planet.

Harry seems surprised to be asked again. He pauses in his tracks, giving Louis a calculating look.

“Hum,” he starts, passing a hand into his hair, ruffling it nervously. Louis wishes he could say he looks a mess, but there’s something about the easy way Harry does it that makes it seem like he knows exactly how casually tousled it’s making him look and that it works for him. “I… suppose it would be okay… ?” he continues, phrasing it almost like a question.

Louis might have a cunning plan, but the last thing he wants is to actually impose.

“Only if you’re sure it’s okay,” he insists. “He can wait a couple more hours if necessary. We can always go after lunch. He’s getting some fresh air anyway,” Louis finishes with a dismissive hand gesture towards where Clifford is sniffing the grass.

“No, it’s okay,” Harry replies, walking closer to Louis to grab the leash. “S’not like he’s a big imposition.”

Louis laughs at the comment, rolling his eyes a little before protesting. “You say that now, but wait until you want to chill on the sofa and he decides it’s cuddle time. He might look slim enough but that beast is heavy.”

Harry smiles, polite as ever, maybe a little less closed off, but still without true warmth behind it.

“I’ll remember,” he replies, waving goodbye at Louis with the hand holding the leash before whistling at Clifford in an easily authoritative way.

Louis’ dog goes along with him straight away, the two of them disappearing beyond the cliffs.

&

Soon enough, it’s become a new habit, a daily ritual they’ve silently agreed on. Harry walks Clifford in the morning, grabbing the leash without being asked to anymore and disappearing for a couple of hours God knows where with Louis’ dog, coming back with his shoulders a little less tense and whispering sweet nothings into Clifford’s ears before hiding somewhere deep within the b&b with one of his precious notebooks. At night, Louis is the one to take over dog walking duties, going down to the beach for a little thirty minutes of letting Cliffy roam free in the sand while he asks him rhetorical questions about their guest. Clifford never replies, preferring to run into the freezing water like he’s still a puppy, splashing around and drenching Louis more often than he’d be willing to admit. Even so, if Clifford was about to spill details about Harry, Louis wouldn’t want to know. Not unless it came from the man himself.

So they settle into it, time moving as slowly as ever on the island, Louis’ progress on the b&b’s repairs advancing even slower as he carefully ensures every job is done to perfection. He takes great pride in his establishment after all, cares for it like it’s actually his and he isn’t just responsible for looking after it. He pours as much love into the repairs as he can, secretly hoping it’ll seep through the walls and every guest will be able to feel it.

One day, a little over a week after Harry’s first walk with Clifford, Louis is coming out of the grocers’ with some supplies when he almost bumps into Mr Drummond. Quite literally.

“Oh,” Louis gasps, taking a step back to avoid their bodies colliding into one another. “Sorry about that,” he adds with a smile, adjusting the paper bag he’s holding onto his left hip before fiddling with the Waterstones tote bag on his right shoulder.

Mr Drummond smiles back at him from under his battered tartan flat cap. In all the years since Louis first moved on Fair Isle, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the older man without it. Not even once. He’s wearing a variation of the same outfit he wears every day, a three-piece tweed suit that makes him look dashing and important. This time it’s olive green, the exact same colour of his sharp eyes. It matches Harry’s too, Louis’ brain uselessly supplies when their gazes meet.

He shakes his head as soon as the thought enters his brain, trying to get rid of it.

“Louis!” Mr Drummond exclaims, an appreciated distraction. “How are ya’, lad?”

It’s a secret he’ll take to the grave, because sharing it now would cause unnecessary drama if it spread all over the island, but Mr Drummond has always been Louis’ favourite resident. Ever since that first time he visited the island with his family as a teenager, Louis has had a soft spot for the man who looks after the bird observatory. He’s in his early sixties now, his salt and pepper beard and his bouncy enthusiasm making him look almost a decade younger than he actually is. He’s always too dressed up for the work he’s doing, but would never want to show up at his place of business without the proper attire, resulting in him in various stages of dishevelment as he gives long talks on the ornithological life on the island for visitors. He always has a fun fact on hand, something about the natural world Louis would have never thought to ask about, but ends up loving to know.

Lovable and charming to a fault, Louis strongly suspects most of the tourists who come back do so because they want more of him. And who can blame them? Louis himself always laments the fact that they’re both too busy to hang out more frequently, as both men in charge of vital touristic establishments on the island.

“I’m good,” Louis replies. “Good, great. Busy, you know? Been trying to fit as much maintenance work as possible before winter hits, you know the drill,” he adds with a small laugh, aware that Mr Drummond, more than anyone, understands the pressure Louis is under. He’s been deep into some serious repairs on the observatory roof these past few days after all, if village gossip is to be trusted. “How are you? How’s the roof?”

Mr Drummond nods. “Well, very well. Busy too. I’m up there every day,” he laughs, pointing upwards. “Been meaning to talk to you about that, actually,” he adds, taking Louis by surprise.

“Oh, really? Do you need a hand?” Louis assumes, trying to mentally shuffle through his to-do list to see when he’s got an opening to drop by. “Today and tomorrow are a bit difficult, but –”

He’s interrupted by Mr Drummond laughing, shaking his hand in front of Louis’ face to stop him babbling. “Nah, nah. It’s nothing like that my boy, nothing like that at all. I’m quite alright. Thanks though, the thought’s appreciated.” He pauses for a second, fiddling with his flat cap before looking at Louis straight in the eyes. “I was wondering how your guest is doing?”

At that, Louis blinks in confusion.

“My guest?” he repeats, not answering the question. What on Earth could Mr Drummond want with Harry?

“Yes,” Mr Drummond says slowly, patiently. “That Harry lad? Tall, silent, but very polite?” He puts his hand up to indicate how tall he means, grossly exaggerating Harry’s stature.

Louis hums, fiddling with the tote bag filled with groceries where it’s digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah. He’s good? He… he seems to like the island. I… I don’t know, he’s doing his own thing.”

“Aye,” Mr Drummond agrees. “Wasn’t sure about him at first, Louis. I’ll be honest.”

Louis’ heart jumps to his throat. “What do you mean?” he asks, more tense, more accusatory than he means to. “What did he do?”

Mr Drummond makes a sound of denial low in his throat. “Nothin’, nothin’. Was always lurking, though? Wasn’t he? Never really introduced himself to anyone...”

“Oh,” Louis replies, looking down. Harry is obviously a very private person, that’s been made quite clear from the first time Louis ever talked to him. He’s not sure why he’s so offended on his behalf to hear Mr Drummond judge him for it. “I don’t know,” he says awkwardly after a long pause. He wouldn’t have described Harry as lurking, but clearly Mr Drummond has a different opinion. And it’s not like Louis has ever seen Harry around the village himself to contradict him.

“He’s always going to the phone box,” Mr Drummond says in a reproachful tone, pointing to the red box that stands just at the edge of the main street, right where the road widens a little to go down the cliffs. If Louis follows that road he’ll reach the small muddy path that leads to his own establishment. “Same time every morning. Just going there to make phone calls.”

Louis looks at the phone box like he’s seeing it for the first time, and he might as well be considering he always forgets that it’s there.

“The phone box?” he asks, frowning a little. “What do you mean?”

“Big red thing,” Mr Drummond teases, wiggling his fingers towards it.

Louis chuckles, then shakes his head. “Yes, I know where the only phone box in town is. Didn’t know the thing worked though,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. Truly he had forgotten the damned thing was there and he’s not certain why Mr Drummond is making such a big fuss over it.

“Aye, it does. It works fine.”

“Is the fact that Harry is making phone calls important?” Louis asks, a hint hesitantly. He truly has no idea why Mr Drummond would ever bring this up, is the thing.

“No, no. We were just wondering. He doesn’t talk much and you hadn’t said a word about him either.”

It’s the use of the _we_ that finally annoys Louis. It’s not that he hasn’t been wondering about what the rest of the village thinks about their offseason guest. Because he most definitely has. But none of them have mentioned it to him, none of them tried to ask questions, so he naively figured maybe they didn’t care, or maybe Harry was more forthcoming with them than he has been with Louis. Honestly, everyone has been so uncharacteristically silent about Harry that Louis had started to wonder if maybe they just hadn’t noticed.

He should have known they would all have strong opinions about him whether they shared them or not.

“Well, whoever he’s calling every day, I think that’s his business, right? Not like mobile service is particularly great over here. And he might have some important stuff to keep track off. I mean, every company claims to give us coverage, but we all know that’s not true at all, right?” Louis says it all quickly, insistently, hoping Mr Drummond is going to drop the whole thing, that he’s going to report back to the others that Harry should be left alone and that he’s not someone to worry about.

Mr Drummond groans in agreement, as used as Louis is to the annoyed tourists yelling that their mobile provider promised they’d be okay on Fair Isle, angrily brandishing useless phones with zero bar of service in locals’ faces like they could do something about it. Even so, Louis hadn’t realised the phone box was operational and he can’t help but wonder who it is that Harry needs to call every day that he doesn’t want Louis to know about. He could use the phone in his room, surely. Does he think Louis would check on him?

“Anyways,” Mr Drummond finally says, shaking his head. “I was just going to say that I’ve changed my mind about him now that I’ve met him. He came to the observatory with Clifford a few days ago, even stayed on to help with some of the things I was getting ready for the roof repairs. Helped me moved some furniture around.”

Louis smiles. “Did he?” he asks, surprised again. “He never mentioned it,” he adds, though it’s not like Harry mentions much to him.

“Aye, aye. He was lovely. Seemed shy, but lovely. So yeah, I was hoping you could pass on my thanks and best wishes to him, and apologise, for me. I misjudged him. He’s a good lad. And I’ve told everyone else too,” he insists. “They won’t be bothering him.”

Louis’s heart skips a beat.

“Wait, what? They’ve been bothering him?” he asks, a bit frantic.

“Nah, nah. Dinnae worry. No one would chase away your only customer of the offseason. You know us better than that, lad. They were just a bit tense, you know how it is? No one wanted to tell _you_ about it, of course. You’ve been lucky to have a new guest so late in the season. We dinnae want to ruin it with our silly worries. But it’s all sorted now. I’ve had a nice chat with him and I can tell he’s a lovely chap.”

Louis sighs in relief. “Well, I’m glad you think so. And I’ll give him your greetings.”

“Cheers Louis,” Mr Drummond says as he walks away, waving him off.

When he walks past the phone box on his way home, Louis can’t help but give it an inquisitive look.

That night, when Louis gives him Mr Drummond’s message while serving him dinner, Harry smiles, genuinely, the heaviness in his eyes lifting for a second.

&

The next morning, Louis is working outside wrapped in an oversized black hoodie that’s seen better days, tiny splatters of paint he never managed to completely wash off scattered all over the piece,  and his oldest pair of jeans, trying his best to ignore the cold where his knees are exposed with how frayed the fabric is. He’s so focused on the window frame he’s repainting that he doesn’t even realise Harry is almost back from his habitual morning walk until Clifford barks enthusiastically at him.

Louis turns around, paintbrush in hand, frowning a little when he sees the way Harry is walking with even more nervous energy in his step than usual, looking over his shoulder every few seconds like he’s scared someone has been following. He’s looked haunted since Louis first caught a glimpse of him, but this… this is something different.

“You alright?” Louis asks as soon as Harry is within earshot, trying not to sound too concerned.

Harry shakes his head. His cheeks are red, like maybe he’s embarrassed, though Louis suspects it could be from the cold. It’s been relatively sunny the past week, miraculously, so they’ve been blessed with warmer weather than expected, but the wind is biting as ever, especially on top of the cliffs.  

Clifford starts circling around Harry when he reaches the door, tail wagging when he stops to pet him.

“Listen, I know it’s none of my business,” Louis begins kindly, taking a step towards him, “but if you want to talk about it, I’m happy to –”

Harry shakes his head firmly, eyes fixed on Louis’ dog. “It’s really _truly_ nothing.”

Louis hates to insist. “Are you sure?” he still asks, unable to resist when Harry looks over his shoulder again for a second before finally looking into Louis’ eyes. There is a deep frown on his face, wrinkling his forehead almost beyond recognition. He’s clearly troubled.

“Yes!” Harry whispers insistently, snappish, irritated. Then, he winces. “Sorry, it’s…” He grimaces. “It’s stupid.”

“That’s allowed,” Louis jokes, feeling a smidge of satisfaction when the corner of Harry’s mouth turns up a little. He’s still frowning deeply like he’s in an Oscar-nominated drama about the monarchy, but maybe Louis can actually help.

“I had an… unpleasant encounter this morning, but it’s fine.”

And that… that has Louis truly thrown off. On an island populated by sixty people he knows very well, there aren’t many options as to who could be at fault and he can’t imagine any of them not on their best behaviour in front of a tourist.

“Oh,” Louis replies, putting down the paintbrush into the can. “I’m sorry about that. Everyone here is usually very welcoming. Whatever it was, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. I could talk to them if you want?” he offers, putting both of his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, then he shrugs.

“That’s… not going to be necessary.”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to. Honestly, I’m sure it was a simple –”

“It was a puffin,” Harry finally reveals, interrupting Louis with a curt tone, the red of his cheeks deepening at the admission.

Embarrassment then.

“I’m sorry?” Louis asks, fighting hard to keep himself from laughing.

“It was a puffin, okay? A tiny puffin.” Harry’s eyes darken. “A tiny evil puffin,” he adds in a whisper.

Louis bites his lower lip as he nods and hums, a mantra of _do not laugh do not laugh do not laugh_ echoing in his brain. “Puffins… aren’t usually on the island in November?” he says, voice a bit high pitched as he refrains from laughing. “They’re mostly around in the spring and the summer,” he reveals, tone turning teasing on the last word. “Is it possible you saw another type of bird?”

“I know what a puffin looks like!” Harry argues. “It was a puffin and it just… It was very aggressive and… judgemental.”

“Judgmental?”

“Yes!!” Harry insists. “It was like… It was like it could see into my soul and it didn’t like it,” he says with a shudder, actually looking shaken by the encounter.

And that… that just makes Louis chuckle, no matter how hard he’s been trying to hold back. “So, let me get this straight,” he says, taking a step forward towards Harry. “You went to the beach where a magical puffin looked into your soul and declared it dark?”

“I never said the puffin was magical.”

“You said it looked into your soul?”

“Because it did!”

“Did it try to attack you or… ?”

Harry shakes his head. “No! It just… It just started to follow me around. It was creepy.”

“Maybe it just ‘liked’ you?” Louis offers, raising an eyebrow.

That makes Harry pause. Then, after a beat: “Either way, I thought it’d be safer to come back.”

“Right, of course. Wouldn’t want you to die by puffin glare. That’d be an embarrassing obituary.”

Harry’s body relaxes at the joke. He tilts his head down for a second, before offering Louis a sheepish look. “So, I might have overreacted.”

Louis squints at him in response. “Maybe a little.”

Harry raises his shoulders, stroking his hands together for warmth. “I’m gonna… go inside now and drink a gallon of tea to forget all of this,” he mumbles as he walks past Louis to get back inside.

“Smart,” Louis calls to his retreating back. “Deal with the trauma the British way.”

Once Harry has fully disappeared, he bends down to grab his paintbrush again, unable to shake the smile off his face.


	3. Chapter 3

Late one afternoon, a few days later, Louis shows up at the top of the lighthouse just as the sky starts to darken. Harry is sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the bench, one of his long legs stretched out in front of him, the other bent, the notebook Louis almost never sees him without resting on his thigh as he hums to himself and writes down whatever it is he’s always scribbling away. He’s wearing pale jeans again, the bottom rolled up, and his feet are protected by grey wool socks with a thin red band at the ankle. There’s a hole on one of his knees, the only indication these are not the same pair as before, the material frayed somehow endearingly. It looks like proper use as well, not one of those fashionable pairs that have been pre-frayed for aesthetic purposes, like Harry wore them over and over and won’t stop even now that they’re falling apart. He’s wearing one of Louis’ favourite jumpers too, one he clearly took from the living room chest where Louis left it after the last laundry load he did. It’s always a hit with guests, dark blue with a quirky frog pattern, five rows of large green amphibians decorating it on both sides. Louis’ mum bought it for the lighthouse back in his hometown a few years ago, found it in her favourite charity shop and mailed it to him the next day, too amused to wait until they saw each other in person to give it to him. Louis had laughed when he’d opened the package, unable to resist putting it on immediately. It’s always been a bit big on Louis’ slightly slimmer frame, but it fits Harry’s perfectly, hugging his broad shoulders impeccably.  

After a second of silent observation, it becomes quite clear that Harry never heard him walk in, so lost deep in thought that Louis’ arrival didn’t even register for him. Feeling a bit creepy just standing there in silence, Louis clears his throat before says a quiet “hey” to greet him.

Harry looks up at the sound, giving Louis a simple nod in reply before burying himself back into his journal.

“Is it okay if I…” Louis trails off when Harry looks up again, showing him the Scottish short stories anthology he’s been reading and pointing at the other side of the bench instead of explaining himself.

Harry nods again, offering Louis a small shrug before tuning out the entire room again the second his eyes are back on the page. He clearly doesn’t seem too bothered by Louis’ presence, which is a relief considering they’re going to have to coexist for a few months and Louis certainly isn’t ready to give up his favourite view in the world entirely for a guest. Even one who paid for such a long stay.

Louis makes his way to the only lamp in the room, turning it on and sitting close to it on the bench, on the opposite side from Harry’s little corner. He has quite a good view of his serious profile, on all the microexpressions flashing on his face as he rereads what he just wrote, drumming his pen against the pages of his journal, the small tap tap tap still heard underneath the storm outside, mixing in with the sound of rain splattering against the windows.

He keeps watching for a few seconds, unable to look away, before he realises what he’s doing and self-consciously clears his throat, taking the receipt he’s been using as a bookmark out of the anthology and reading on.

Still, he can’t seem to focus somehow, between the rain and the tapping and the humming and….

Louis shakes his head, closing the book. He’s sitting crossed legs on the bench and he drops it on his lower shins and ankles, the green cover and gold lettering staring at him, warning him against opening his big dumb mouth. Without permission, his eyes turn to Harry’s face again.

He’s in his own world, the pen now resting between the pages of his journal, his fingers fiddling with the rubber band around his wrist, eyes moving quickly over the page as he reads.

Louis looks away, back down at his book. He shouldn’t bother his guest.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he still says after a beat, against his best judgement. He has no excuse for the fact that he was unable to contain it.

Harry visibly stiffens straight away. He’s still hunched over his notebook, doesn’t even look up, doesn’t even reply. His shoulders tense in anticipation though, bracing himself even though he never gives Louis permission to go on, like he’s just waiting for it, like it’ll be a blow no matter what Louis ask and Louis… he just…

“Nevermind,” he mumbles, quick, embarrassed, looking away like the sight of Harry’s discomfort burned him. He feels his cheeks redden, shame rising at the back of his throat. Why can’t he just leave things alone? he mentally scolds himself. _It’s none of my business_ , a familiar vicious voice in the back of his mind admonishes.   

“It’s fine.” Harry’s voice sounds tired, like it’s anything but and he still forced himself to say it. “Ask away,” he adds, sounding like every word pained him to say, but when Louis looks up at him again, their eyes meet and Harry’s are clear with sincerity. He means it, wants Louis to ask. “I might not answer,” he warns and Louis truly can’t fault him for that.

“Fair enough,” he says with a small huff, something halfway between a sigh and a laugh. He raises an eyebrow towards Harry before talking again. “It’s not a very deeply personal question anyway, you might be surprised.”

“I highly doubt that. I’ve been asked everything.”

“Everything?” Louis replies, doubtful.

“Trust me,” Harry sighs. “I’ve been asked everything. Go on, what is it? I live in your house now, the least I can do is hear your questions.”

“Question,” Louis corrects, raising one index. “Just the one.”

“Are you trying to build suspense or are just bored with this book? Because if it’s the latter, please find something to do, I’m busy here,” Harry says, gesturing towards the notebook.

Louis would be offended, would feel guilty, except there’s a small smile on Harry’s face, almost a twinkle in his eyes. Louis suspects he’s just joking, though he doesn’t want to chance it and decides to ask his question straight away.

“Are you a writer?”

There’s a long pause where Harry looks down at the journal on his thigh. “That’s your question?”

Louis shrugs. “Heard it before?”

“Not quite this exact phrasing, but variations, sure.”

Louis laughs. “Alright, I ask boring predictable questions, I guess. It’s just… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without it,” he explains, gesturing vaguely towards notebook. “And you said you travel a lot… I don’t know. I got curious. Figured both might be for work, right?”

“I see.”

“So,” Louis insists after Harry doesn’t expand and lets the moment sit still between them a beat too long. “Are you?”

Harry looks at him, straight in the eyes, his focused and intense, before half shaking his head like maybe he’s not so sure. “Not really,” he finally says, and it doesn’t sound like a lie – Harry certainly means it – but it doesn’t sound like the full truth either.

This would be where Louis kindly pushes, teases, coaxes the truth out of him, where Louis uses both charm and wit to make his guest at ease and unravel the whole thing from him expertly. He’s done it before, after all, has a bit of a knack for holding people’s secrets safe, for making them trust him. But there’s something about Harry, about the skittish way he’s holding himself, about the shadows pinching the corners of his smiles, something that tells Louis ‘not yet’.

Not yet.

&

Suddenly, without Louis noticing, over an hour has passed. He blinks down at his phone, surprised to see the time before putting it back into the pocket of his sweats. He fell into the short stories more easily than he expected once his curiosity was partly satisfied and he needs to get a move on if he wants to have dinner ready on time. He leaves the book on the bench for later, getting up silently then stretching his arms over his head. He rolls his shoulders, feeling a little stiff from staying in the same position for so long. When he turns to warn Harry he’s leaving, Louis finds a pair of inquisitive green eyes focused on him already.

He smiles, then points at the stairs. “Gonna go get some food started,” he explains before walking away.

He’s about to go down when Harry interrupts him with a small “can I help?” that takes Louis by surprise.

Louis stops in his tracks, turning around with a disbelieving frown on his face. “Help?” he repeats.

Harry shrugs. “I love to cook,” he admits before biting his lower lip.

“You paid good money for the whole thing, I wouldn’t really be comfortable letting you do the hard work. Like… you paid for the food.”

“Yeah and I’m going to be getting the food either way, but I’d be more comfortable if we shared labour,” Harry argues before getting up and putting his pen in the back pocket of his jeans. He’s gripping the journal tightly. “I really would be more comfortable,” he insists when Louis only stares blankly at him. “And I truly love to cook. I’m good at it, I swear. I won’t be in the way or anything. I can take instructions well.”

Louis swallows back a dirty joke automatically, looking away from Harry’s attractive frame. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed that Harry is more gorgeous than anyone he’s ever met in real life before. He has. He just figured there was no point thinking about it really.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks, not wanting to take advantage. Unlike Harry, this is his job. He can’t very well abuse his guest’s kindness without making sure.

“Yessss!” Harry exclaims, tilting his head backwards in annoyance. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Feels… wrong not to have any normal shit to do. It’s…. I don’t know, dehumanizing.”

Louis blinks, unsure how to reply to such a comment.

“Are we going?” Harry insists, walking past Louis and down the stairs without giving him a chance to reply.

Soon enough, they’re both in the kitchen, hard at work chopping vegetables in silence, Louis mentally stopping himself every few seconds when the urge to boss Harry around like he would anyone else to ensure they’re doing things _his_ way arises.

After the fifth time Louis opens his mouth to comment and then closes it straight away, going back to the onions he’s taking care of with a clenched jaw to stop his eyes from welling up, Harry chuckles loudly.

“Ok, what is it?” he asks, putting his knife on the cutting board and angling his body towards Louis with a hand on his hip, the other leaning on the counter.  

“What?” Louis says, pretending he has no idea what Harry is talking about, still cutting the onions with focus.

Except Harry isn’t easily fooled and when Louis risks a glance sideways, he sees him narrowing his eyes, fingers drumming against his own hip.

“It’s your kitchen,” Harry finally says after Louis stays silent a second too long, “if I’m doing something wrong, you should tell me.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Louis replies automatically. He’s not is the thing. “You’re being very… helpful.”

“How painful was that for you to say then?” Harry says, not missing a beat.

“So much,” Louis replies automatically, turning around to face him. “But you are helpful, it’s just…”

“Yes?”

“Why aren’t you slicing the carrots?”

“Aren’t I?” Harry asks, looking at the carrot pieces he’s already cut.

“Yes, you’re roll-cutting them!” Louis whines. “Now we’ve got big slices of carrots while everything else is thin like matchsticks. How are we supposed to have a beautiful… homogenous stir-fry with big chunks like this? Why would you make that decision?”

Harry snorts, looking down as he starts laughing fully. “Oh, you’re serious,” he says when he looks back up and catches Louis’ frown. “Hum… I cut them like this so we’d have a variety of shapes in the plate? Just… creates a nice little party in your mouth, you know? Besides, they’re still very thin, just… round slices instead of matchsticks. ”

Louis, ignoring Harry’s explanation completely, declares: “we have broccoli and mangetout for variety of shapes” with a serious look on his face. He wishes he wasn’t like this, but now that they’ve opened this can of worms, now that Harry’s insisted for his opinion, he can’t stop himself.

“So you’re a bit of a control freak in the kitchen, aren’t you?” Harry asks, tone teasing as he returns to his board and starts to cut the carrots in the exact same way as before. Like Louis didn’t say anything at all. “Is that why you didn’t want me to help?”

Louis huffs, focusing his attention to the onions again. Control freak seems a tad exaggerated, as far as Louis is concerned. It’s not his fault that he’s been cooking by himself for years now and has strict habits when it comes to the kitchen. Thing is, even with an army of siblings at home to take care of, Louis had always been the worst one in terms of culinary skills. He had tried and tried, with his mother and sisters’ encouragements, but nothing seemed to work for him. When he got approved for the b&b, he knew he would never be able to afford a proper cook, so he worked twice as hard as he ever had to transform his disasters into edible, and even enjoyable, food. He even took a few classes at a community centre on the Mainland, investing time and money into developing his abilities. He worked hard, but it paid off for sure, transforming Louis into a confident cook, someone who actually knows what they’re doing. It turned out better than he, and every member of his family, ever expected. And he’s proud of that. But that means Louis has a comfort zone, that he does thing orderly to make sure it goes well. He sticks to what he knows and it works. Harry though… Harry is bringing truly chaotic energy to his kitchen.

Sneaking a quick look to his right and spotting Harry’s teasing grin, Louis can’t help but feel like he doesn’t fully hate it though.

“I didn’t not want you to help,” Louis says diplomatically, still looking at Harry. “I wanted to be professional and offer you the service you actually paid for.”

“I think you really just didn’t want me to disturb your stuff, actually,” Harry argues and this is _new_ … There have been hints of it before, hints of Harry teasing and joking, but always shying away right after, looking like he just remembered he’s supposed to be miserable every single time. Or maybe like he remembered he is sad and no amount of joking is going to erase it.

Louis’ heart squeezes in his chest, a hint of fear, a tremor of anxiety, climbing up his throat at the thought of Harry doing it again, at the thought of his smile fading, of his shining personality retreating back into its shell. Louis doesn’t want him to, doesn’t want his smile to go away, so he plays along in the hope it’ll be enough to nourish this new flame.

“I am neither willing to confirm nor deny that this affected my initial reaction to your proposal,” Louis huffs, tilting his nose up in pretend offence, face shaping into a crinkly smile when it makes Harry laugh.

“Sorry I ruined your stir fry,” Harry chuckles, putting the carrots aside and reaching for celery.

“Our stir fry,” Louis corrects, swapping the finished onions for the broccoli he previously mentioned. He shakes his head as he cuts the broccoli head in half. “It’s fine, what’s life without a little change, right?" 

“Right,” Harry agrees.

They keep cutting in silence for a bit, not as tense as before. They’ve settled into something comfortable now that Louis has stopped looking over his shoulder at what Harry’s doing, stopped trying to micromanage him rudely, and they’re much more efficient for it. Still, it takes Louis by surprise when Harry breaks the quiet tranquillity of the moment.

“So, is that where you eat then?” he asks, using the hand holding the knife to point at the small table pushed against the window.

Louis nods. “Yeah, mostly. I mean… I’ll have a meal with guests in the dining room once in a while if they ask, but I usually like to stay out of the way. It’s a lot less awkward for them without me there. I usually just eat after everyone is done. Even when the place is empty during winter, I don’t like eating in the dining room.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, eyebrows furrowed and a small confused pout on his face.

“I don’t know,” Louis says, shrugging a little. “It’s just a big empty room, right? Seems weird to have it all to myself. Like… lonelier somehow.”

“Tell me about,” Harry mumbles under his breath, head down as he keeps cutting.

 _Oh_ , Louis thinks, heart, tightening in his chest.

He’s been so concerned with staying out of Harry’s way and making sure he’s got everything he needs that he didn’t even think to ask if he ever wanted company.

“You don’t like it either?” Louis risks asking, not wanting to look at Harry’s face.

“It’s alright,” he replies automatically and even without seeing his face, Louis can tell that Harry is lying. “S’like you said, just a bit weird. Isolated. But that’s why I came here, right? To feel like I’m the only person in the world.”

“Right,” Louis agrees gently, risking a small look at him. “Sorry if I ruin the illusion,” he jokes, smiling when Harry looks up with a bit of a crooked grin.

“It’s fine.”

“Well, this tiny uncomfortable table sits two so, you know, if you find the dining room unbearable you’re always welcome. Me and Clifford are in here most nights.”

“Really?” Harry asks, sounding surprised.

Louis frowns. “Yeah, I’ve just said. I almost always eat here. I mean, sometimes I’ll eat in my room or in the lantern room if it’s a sandwich or something, but you know.”

“No, no. I mean… You’re sure it wouldn’t bother you? If I ate with you here?”

It’s the way he asks that makes Louis so sad, the way his voice gets smaller and he sounds unsure even though Louis just said it was fine.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course not. You wouldn’t bother me. I mean… We barely know each other so it’d be really nice to dine with you. You’re always welcome.”

“So… I could tonight?” Harry asks like he needs reassurance again, like he’s really afraid he’s disturbing some big incredible solo plan Louis has somehow.

Louis smiles kindly. “You could every night if you want. As I said, it’s fine. I’d love the company.”

Harry bites his lower lip, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Okay,” he whispers back, focusing on his veggies.

“Okay,” Louis agrees.

&

It’s surprisingly not quite awkward, the two of them eating face to face when they know practically nothing about each other. It’s awkward that it’s not more awkward if Louis’ honest with himself, the silence between them interrupted only by their cutlery clinking and the wind outside. It should feel heavy, should feel uncomfortable, but just like the time they spent together on top of the tower this afternoon, it’s easy for them to exist in the same place. Maybe they’re made of the same cloth, Louis ponders as he chews on a bit of stir fry, looking up at Harry, secretly enjoying the way he ridiculously eats with his tongue out first. Maybe they’re both the kind of lonely that doesn’t fully hurt, the kind of lonely that’s comforting sometimes. Both of them tucked away against the window, alone but together, in a place the rest of the world has forgotten…

“Can I ask you a question?”

When Harry finally breaks the silence, it’s with timidity. He doesn’t shy away from Louis’ gaze though, his eyes mesmerising as he waits for the verdict, waits for permission.

Louis purses his lips in response, a little amused by the request.

“I think it would be quite hypocritical of me to say no, right?” he replies before taking a sip of water.

Harry’s face remains serious but he looks down at the red and white tablecloth Louis picked out especially when he realised he wouldn’t dine alone, fingers stroking the fabric nervously. He shrugs, a small movement that Louis probably wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t paying such close attention.

“You really don’t have to say yes,” Harry says sincerely. He won’t meet Louis’ eyes again though and it feels like whilst he’d, of course, respect Louis’ right to refuse, maybe he would feel a bit betrayed by it.

Luckily, Louis doesn’t mind. “Of course you can ask me a question Harry, don’t be silly.”

At that, Harry straightens his shoulders, looking taller in his chair now that he’s not hunched over himself. He grabs his fork again, digging into his plate and moving veggies around before taking a small dainty bite. It’s the way he eats it carefully that clues Louis into the fact that he’s just trying to waste a bit of time before asking what he wants to ask. He chews carefully, then swallows, before actually speaking. “I suppose I wonder what led you here is all,” he finally comments, making eye contact with Louis again.

That’s not really a question, but it is a story that Louis loves to tell. It’s _his_ story, the most important story he has to tell, as silly as it might seem.

“Ah,” Louis exclaims, widening his eyes. “Right. The famous ‘what led you to self-imposed exile in Scotland?’ query.” He hums and nods theatrically. He’s used to that one. “You’re not the first one to wonder.”

Harry looks sheepish. “I guess it’s a bit unusual,” he offers carefully, obviously afraid he might offend. “You’re…” he falters for a second, eyes roaming over Louis’ face and his upper body, before blushing and shaking his head. “You’re young and clearly don’t sound Scottish… And this village is 90% populated by retirees.”

At that, Louis can’t help but laugh. He loves his neighbours, he really does, but Harry’s not wrong. “Yeah, I suppose I am the odd one here, aren’t I?”

Harry shrugs again. “That’s not what I was trying to imply.”

“No, no, I know. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I mean… My entire family thought it was weird when I first moved on the island. They’re supportive now because they see how happy I am, but most of my extended family still thinks there’s something seriously wrong with me. I mean, a lot of them are homophobic anyways so they’d probably think there was something wrong with me even if I’d stayed put but… you know…”

He says it matter-of-factly, used to the fact that his life choices will always be scrutinised no matter what they are, knows that who he is won’t always be fully accepted. Tolerated? Sure. Loved? Always. But fully accepted by his family? Outside of his mother and siblings? It’s unlikely and Louis made peace with that a long time ago.

Harry, on the other hand, seems upset by Louis’ admission, his pretty mouth turned down with displeasure, an ugly frown deepening quickly on his face. There’s thunder in his eyes and, for a second, Louis fears he might lose it. But the anger passes in a flash, Harry controlling his facial expression into something more neutral. Nothing can erase the way Harry looked deeply offended by what Louis said though.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally says, words dripping with compassion and trembling with residual anger. “That’s…” he shakes his head, clearly still frustrated. “That’s not right. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing wrong with any of it.”

Louis bites down his laugh, restraining himself only because there’s something about the way Harry is holding himself that hints at this being a bit of a personal topic for him too. It’s in the tense line of his shoulders, the tightening of his fists, the very controlled outrage in his voice.

“Thanks,” Louis replies instead. “It’s fine, to be honest. Their fucking problem, am I right?”

Harry chuckles, a bit of tension thankfully melting from his body. “Yeah,” he agrees. Then he nods, mostly to himself. “Yeah, of course.” He pauses for a long time, eyes fixed on his plate like he’s considering his options before speaking again. “Some of my extended family would be the same if they knew about my sexuality,” he finally admits and _oh,_ Louis thinks, somehow taken aback without being fully surprised. He smiles sadly, feeling a stab of sympathy for the way Harry gulps shakily, the other man clearly a little frazzled by what he just revealed. “I can’t really tell them right now,” Harry continues quickly, tripping all over his words. “It’s…. It’s complicated…” He hesitates, glancing up and giving Louis a long calculating look that he can’t decipher no matter how hard he tries. “It’d be really risky… I mean, not that I don’t trust them but if they said –” He stops himself at that, looking mortified.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Louis says, trying to sound reassuring, hating the way Harry seems embarrassed by his closet. “Fuck them,” he adds. “Honestly, fuck them,” he repeats even more forcefully. “They don’t deserve to know you if they’re gonna be shitty about it. Besides, it should be on your terms, right?”

Harry laughs instead of agreeing, a laugh poisoned with bitterness that holds no joy at all. A tiny little chuckle, the angriest sound Louis has probably ever heard. “Yeah,” he says through gritted teeth, drumming his fingers against the table. Something haunted flickers on his face and Louis feels like he truly said the worst possible thing he could have, but then, just as it appeared suddenly, it vanishes again. Harry’s face becomes a blank mask, emotionless. “I want them to know I’m gay,” he declares, “but the timing is not good, not right now. It’d be really risky for them to know.”

There’s that word again, risky. Louis isn’t sure what it means, but he knows it definitely sounds rehearsed, like words that Harry’s been force-fed and he’s trying to make fit into his mouth even though he doesn’t want them there.

For a second, Louis wonders if maybe Harry has a partner somewhere who wants to keep their relationship secret, a man who for one reason or the other, can’t handle Harry’s whole family knowing about them. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t sound fully like his line, Louis thinks vaguely before remembering it’s none of his business.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, bringing Louis back to the present and out of his head.

“What?”

“We were talking about you moving here and I just… hijacked the conversation. S’bit rude. Please, tell me all about choosing this place, if you still want to. I’d really like to know. I didn’t ask just to make conversation, I’m actually curious.”

Louis shakes his head. “You… you really don’t have to apologise. You’re not hijacking anything.” He stops, inhaling deeply before starting again. “We’re just talking, it’s fine. You can tell me stuff.”

Harry stiffens at that and how is it possible that by trying to be helpful and supportive, Louis has managed to say the wrong thing every single time during this whole conversation?  Before Harry gets a chance to talk again, Louis quickly makes the decision to stir the discussion into an easier territory.

“But if you really want to know the fascinating story of how I ended up here, I’m happy to tell it.”

“Please,” Harry nods. “You said it was like coming home,” he says, clearly remembering his first day at the b&b.

It makes Louis grin despite the lingering strain of the previous topic. “Yeah, it was exactly like that,” he agrees before grabbing a big bite. He chews and swallows too quickly, eager to get to tell the tale. “First time I visited Fair Isle, I was eighteen years old. It was a family trip, though why our mother picked this place I will never understand. I mean, there was five of us kids at the time and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s fuck all to do here. Especially for the young ones. I mean, bird watching and the beach. That’s it.”

“You have four siblings?” Harry asks, latching onto this part of the explanation, eyes wide with excitement.

“Well, six now, me mom’s popped a new set of twins since then.” Louis raises his eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief. He still doesn’t understand how she’s done it, superhuman that she is. “I’m the eldest: five younger sisters and a brother. Though it was only my four sisters and me at the time.”

“Wow.”

“Yep, you can imagine how busy the house got.”

“Yeah,” Harry snorts a little unattractively. It’s kind of cute in an ugly way and Louis has to look away, has to focus on his storytelling instead of the fact that Harry is cute _and gay._

“Not a second of quiet there, that’s for sure,” Louis continues, trying to distract himself. “Maybe that’s why I fell in love with the stillness here so much,” he ponders out loud. He never could fully explain it to himself, the way he fell hard and fast, deeper than he’d ever fallen, the first time he saw this place. “It’s just… we showed up here and I was eighteen, right? Pissed as hell that I was being dragged away from me mates for the summer, thinking a trip to Scotland was a waste of my time. God, I can’t tell you how much I didn’t want to go. I love my siblings, but it pretty much sounded like a death sentence when me mum first told me. I argued with her so much, trying to convince her to let me stay home. I tried to tell her it’d be less expensive if I didn't come… The whole thing. But she said she needed help taking care of the girls and it’s not like I could say no. So I was dragged along… Changed my life too, uh?” Louis shakes his head, smiling fondly. “I’ll never forget the first view I got of this place from the ferry.”

“Yeah?” Harry encourages, pushing his finished plate aside and resting his face against his hand, elbow on the table.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, knowing his face is morphing into a dreamy, dopey look and not even caring one bit. “It was like magic. It was like… I knew, straight away, that I belonged here. My first walk along the cliffs, I just… I just recognised myself here, you know?”

“Love at first sight,” Harry agrees with a soft, sad, look on his face.

“Yeah,” Louis laughs softly. “I’ve always been a romantic, but I didn’t really believe in that kind of stuff, you know? I probably still don’t when it comes to people… You need time to fall in love with people, but places? You can definitely fall in love at first sight with a place.”

“So what happened? Did you move straight away?” Harry asks, looking enthralled in the story.

Louis bursts out into laughter at the question. If only it had been that easy.

“I take it that means no,” Harry says.

“No, definitely not,” Louis shakes his head. “I think I mentioned before that the island is owned by the National Trust of Scotland?” he asks, waiting for Harry to nod in agreement before continuing. “Basically, you have to wait until a property becomes available to rent to be able to move. And even then, it’s a whole process to be vetted, especially for something like the b&b where it’s a business, you know? I was a kid, there was no way I would have had the money to move straight away.”

“Did you know you wanted to straight away though?”

“Yeah mate, from the first second. I knew I had to come back, I knew I had to live here at some point. Even if it took years.”

“The call was too strong,” Harry says.

“Yeah. Exactly. I’d just finished my A Levels so I applied for uni and did a business degree. It wasn’t really a passion or anything like that, but I figured it’d be useful you know? And that maybe if I had a concrete business idea I could go to the National Trust and apply for a property for that. I’d been saving all along so I thought that’d give me some leverage… But life kinda worked out in a really weird way because literally a couple of weeks before graduation, the Bed and Breakfast became available. I really didn’t think I was gonna get it, considering my age and inexperience, but I was really passionate. And the previous owners, well, renters, liked me when we met. They never said anything, but I think they put in a good word for me.”

Harry smiles. “And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Louis confirms. “Been here ever since. Got Clifford right before moving ‘cause my mum was scared I’d get lonely and we’ve been living in bliss for a few years now.”

“And are you lonely?”

Louis’ eyes widen at the question. Somehow, he wasn’t expecting that one.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… You’re here by yourself with a dog for sole company… You clearly love your family very much, you must miss them. What about your friends? Everyone else?” Harry pauses. “I mean, don’t you get lonely?”

“Not in a way that makes me question my choices,” Louis replies firmly.

He’s surrounded by people most of the time, the b&b filled with enthusiastic guests who want to know everything about living on the island. He’s rarely truly alone.

“That’s not a no,” Harry points out, observant, attentive.

He’s rarely truly alone, and yet.

“No, it’s not.”

They stare at each other in silence for a beat, understanding passing between them without having to be acknowledged.

“What about you?” Louis asks.

“Am I lonely?” Harry echoes and Louis shakes his head.

That’s not what he wants to ask. He doesn’t need to ask if Harry’s lonely, it’s been written on his face since the first second he arrived on the island, since the first moment Louis set eyes on him. He’s a lonely soul, Louis could always tell, but that’s not the source of the sadness hovering over him, casting its shadow over his entire body. At least, Louis doesn’t think.

“No, no. I mean… What led you here? Of all places?”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “That’s… Maybe too long of a story to tell,” he says diplomatically.

Louis can hear the dismissal badly hidden underneath, the _I don’t want to talk about this_ vibes Harry can barely conceal.

“Fair enough,” he agrees easily, ready to switch topics. “Can I ask where you’re from though? Your accent is a bit puzzling.”

“It’s ‘cause I travel loads,” Harry explains with an eye roll. “My mum always says my accent gets really thick when I’ve spent a significant amount of time at home. I’m from Cheshire, originally. Not too far from Manchester? My accent kinda… mellows a little if I’ve spent some time in the US though.”

“Ah! A northerner too, I should have known.” Louis is tempted to ask about his job, about why he travels so much, but he knows that, just like his previous question, it’s not going to be well received. Instead, Louis focuses on the tidbit of information Harry just offered him. “So you’re close to your mum then?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, she’s… She’s the best person I know.”

“Same,” Louis agrees. “Siblings?”

“One,” Harry replies. “Gemma. She’s older than me and much cleverer.”

“Oh I see, you’re the youngest,” Louis hums. “Interesting.”

“Is it?” Harry asks, tilting his head to the right and squinting at Louis.

“Oh yeah, that reveals a lot about you without you even realising. I’m a big brother, I would know.”

“Know what? What is it revealing?” Harry asks and he looks more amused than worried, so Louis happily continues to wind him up.

“That you’re spoiled.”

Just as Louis hoped, Harry’s eyes widen and his mouth open in shock, amusement still written all over his face.

“Oi!” he exclaims. “I don’t think we know each other well enough for you to make claims like that!” he protests with a laugh, clearly enjoying being teased.

“It’s just a fact of life, Harold, backed with a lot of scientific data. The baby of the family is unbearably spoiled. Most likely a brat too. A spoiled brat. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can work to become a better person.” Louis barely gets the last word out before his serious expression falls and he starts giggling.

Harry scoffs. “Fuck off,” he tells Louis with a huge smile on his face.

“How was it, growing up in Cheshire?” Louis asks while Harry is still smiling.

“It was alright. Bit boring to be honest. I’m from a small village. Not much to do.”

“Like here?” Louis jokes.

“No, not that bad.” Harry’s eyes widen as soon as it’s out of his mouth. “I mean,” he tries to backtrack straight away, “I meant it’s bigger than here, you know? Not that here is boring or anything like that. I mean, I wouldn’t be staying here so long if I thought it was boring.”

“You know I’m not the actual island, right? I don’t work for the National Trust either. I’m not gonna get offended if you slag it off,” Louis says with a laugh, kind of endeared by Harry’s behaviour.

“But you are in love with it,” Harry points out softly. “I can easily see you defending its honour.”

Louis smiles, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, she’s the only lady I ever had romantic feelings for, that’s true. She’s pretty special. But I’m not offended. This place isn’t for people thrill-seeking or anything like that.”  

“Yeah, well I wasn’t trying to say anything offensive anyway. Just that I come from a small place where there wasn’t much to do as a teenager.”

“Yeah, I got that, don’t worry. How did you waste your time, then? If there was nothing to do?” Louis asks, curious because if there’s one thing he knows is that bored teenagers will do the absolute craziest shit. He bets Harry has some stories.

“Honestly?” Harry asks, looking a bit nervous. “Mostly music,” he admits. “Used to sing in a band, tried to learn the guitar and everything.” He looks a bit sheepish as he says so, awkward at the admission like maybe it’s a hobby he should be embarrassed about.

“Tried?” Louis smirks.

“Yeah,” Harry snorts. “My mate was a terrible teacher so it didn’t really work out at the time. God, he used to ramble about the most useless shit. Like… just show me some chords!!”

Harry passes a hand through his hair in frustration, making Louis laugh.

“So did you fancy yourself becoming a big rockstar then? Selling out stadiums in America and everything?” Louis teases and he’s surprised by the way Harry’s smile fall.

“Something like that,” he replies in a soft voice. “Pretty stupid dream,” he adds viciously like his teenage self somehow deserves that kind of harshness.

 _Uh_ , Louis thinks.

&

“Thanks for helping out with the dishes,” Louis says, fiddling with a tea towel once they’re done cleaning up. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Of course I had to,” Harry scoffs. “We cooked and ate together, it’s only fair.”

“Well, you’re the guest so there really was no obligation, obviously.”

Harry sighs, grabbing his own dish towel from the counter and he uses it to softly hit Louis’ side, no force behind the gesture.

“Oi!” Louis exclaims, moving backwards, away from his attacker. “What was that for?”

“Stop with that guest nonsense!” Harry says firmly, raising the dishtowel again in warning. “We cook together, we clean together. Those are the new rules. You can’t argue about it every time I help out, otherwise, I might go insane.”

“Fine!” Louis replies, raising his hands in surrender. “Bloody hell, calm down. I didn’t know you had that in you… Feisty little thing, are ya?” he adds in a mumble, mostly to himself.

Harry lifts his chin up and jokingly flips his short curls over his shoulder. “Yes, so beware.”

“I said it was fine!” Louis laughs, shaking his head before dropping his towel on the counter. “Thanks. Either way, I appreciate the help.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies calmly, carefully folding his towel in a tiny square before putting it away next to Louis’ clumped one.

They stare at each other in silence for a second and Louis can tell that’s something’s shifted between them and they can both sense it. It’s a bit early to call Harry his friend, especially considering how little he knows about the man, but he can no longer call him a stranger.

“Listen –” Louis starts just as Harry opens his mouth and says “So –”.

They both grin at each other, Harry gesturing for Louis to go ahead.

“Hum, I was just gonna say… I’m off to walk Clifford for half an hour if you want to join us? We’re just going down the path to the beach, he likes a bit of running in the sand before bed.”

Harry looks down, sliding both of his hands in the pocket of his jeans, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“You don’t have to,” Louis adds, not wanting him to feel forced. “You’ve already wasted most of your evening with me, so I get it.”

Harry looks back up at him. “I’d love to, actually.”

“Yeah?”

He nods.

“Yeah.”

&

“Aren't you scared you’re gonna fall into the water?” Harry asks once they’re walking along the cliffs towards the path heading down to the beach. “I mean, shouldn’t we have like… a torch or something?”

Louis smiles, fonder than he has any right to be and glad for the darkness and the fact that he’s walking a little ahead. There’s no one to see him be so enchanted, thankfully.

“How close to the edge do you think we are mate?” Louis teases. “Besides, just follow Cliff, he knows what he’s doing. He won’t lead us into the abyss.”

Harry huffs behind him and Louis’ grin grows at the sound.

“I would if I could see the bloody dog, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed, he’s entirely black and it’s entirely black outside right now.”

Louis bites his lower lip to stop himself from laughing. “Actually, Clifford has a lot of white on his tummy, I’ll have you know.” He stops when they’ve reached the path, reaching behind himself to grab at Harry. “Careful, Harry,” he says, serious this time.

“What?” Harry asks, continuing to advance towards Louis.

“Careful,” Louis repeats, grabbing onto the wool of Harry’s jumper and stopping him. “We’ve reached the path, we’re gonna go down. But we gotta go slow.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his body heavy against Louis’ back. “Okay.”

“You alright?” Louis asks, letting go of his jumper.

“Yeah, s’just…” Harry pauses and Louis listens to him breathing in the dark. “I hate this bit. I’m really clumsy and I hate going down. It’s fine every time, but I always get nervous.”

Louis laughs as he starts to make his way down very slowly. “You know you don’t actually have to include the beach in your daily walk, right? No one is forcing you, you’re the master of your own destiny, etc etc.”

Harry sighs and Louis can hear him follow him down, mumbling to himself “if only,” which…

“Hey,” Louis says kindly, “you can hold on to me, if you need help.”

“I’m fine,” Harry replies just before he almost slips. “Fuck,” he whispers with a little laugh and Louis stops, waiting to see if he’s alright. “Okay, yeah, maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Harry adds and Louis feels hands grabbing tentatively at his shoulders.

“Alright?” Louis asks, reaching up to pat Harry’s hand on his left shoulder. “You holding on?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Louis says, starting the slow process of getting down again. He’s more careful this time, knowing Harry depends on him for balance. Clifford is already running around on the beach, Louis can vaguely see his shape ahead, can hear him moving around.

“No offence, but s’really stupid to do this without a torch okay. S’really really stupid,” Harry insists, his grip tight enough to bruise on Louis’ shoulders.

“Actually, I never have a problem and I do it every night. Also, I have my phone on me if you really want a torch.”

Harry hums but doesn’t ask for the light so they keep going until they finally reach the end of the slope.

“Why do you always come down if you hate it?” Louis asks, turning around to face Harry in the dark.

Clifford comes running to meet them, barking excitedly between their bodies to attract their attention. Louis suspects he’s maybe two minutes away from running into the freezing water and regretting all of his life choices.

Harry shrugs and Louis can’t tell in the dark, but he suspects he’s probably blushing. He reaches down to pet Clifford, making small kissing noises towards him.

“It’d be stupid to waste this view because I’m not brave enough,” he finally replies after a bit, eyes focused on Louis’ dog.

“Not much to see at night though,” Louis argues, and he’s not sure why he’s pushing this considering he’s the one who invited Harry on a walk and who pressured him down.

“No,” Harry agrees, “but the company is worth it. Besides, it’s lovely at night. It’s even quieter, which I didn’t think was possible for this place.”

“Right?” Louis says, turning to face the dark water. The waves aren’t too strong tonight, the wind having somehow calmed down in the past few hours. The noises they make are almost soothing, a soft melody that accompanies them as they start walking along the small beach, Clifford running ahead of them.

“What’s your favourite thing about the island?” Harry asks, the two of them walking step in step in the dark. “I know you said you just fell in love with it, but if you had to pick one thing.”

Louis inhales deeply, looking straight ahead, then he exhales slowly. “That’s… that’s hard to say.”

“Try,” Harry insists.

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

“I’m just curious,” Harry replies, though the tone of his voice hints that it’s clearly more than that.

“Are you?” Louis insists instead of letting it go.

Harry sighs and when Louis looks at him, he’s got both of his hands deeply buried in the pockets of his jacket. “I guess I just wonder what it feels like, to know what your home is so easily.”

And that… that just hurts in a way Louis wasn’t expecting. Because there’s true pain in what Harry is saying, a wanderer’s sorrow who can’t find the warmth of home no matter where he goes.

“Don’t you have that?” Louis asks, instead of answering because he can’t fathom that feeling, the not knowing where he belongs so firmly from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

“A home?” Harry whispers under the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks. “I don’t think so.”

“I…” Louis shakes his head, unable to find anything to say to that. 

“I have a place where I’m from and a place where I live. I have a house… More than one actually,” Harry admits sadly. “I have places I’ve visited. But nowhere where I’ve felt this is it, this is _my_ place. I… I can’t even imagine what that feels like.”

“Harry, I’m…”

“It’s okay,” Harry says quickly. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Loads of people feel this way, you know. They just live somewhere and it’s fine.” He pauses. “It’s fine,” he repeats sadly. “I was just curious as to how it felt, that’s all. You gave up everything to be here, your friends, your family… I just wanted to know how it felt, I wanted to know what it is about this place that makes it the special place for you, you know? But it’s alright if you don’t know. Or if you don’t want to tell me. It doesn’t matter.”

He says it all very quickly, dismissively, which makes Louis believe that it does matter. It probably matters a whole lot and he wishes he had an answer for him, but the truth is… It’s something Louis has struggled to articulate for years, it’s a feeling that’s so overpowering there are no words strong enough to describe it.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, I promise. I just don’t have a rational answer. I’ve been trying to explain it to myself for years and I just… I just can’t. It was one of those impulses that are undeniable. Just…” Louis stops walking and he turns to face Harry, eyes serious, sincere. “Just undeniable. I needed to be here more than I needed to be back home. And as soon as I was here, it became home. There’s a little voice inside of me that feels… settled here, that feels at home. And I couldn’t get it to shut up, no matter how hard I tried. Do you know what I mean?”

To Louis’ surprise, Harry nods, very slowly, eyes wide.

“Yeah. There’s… there’s one thing in my life that was like that. An impulse to pursue something that I couldn’t have tamed even if I wanted to.”

“Undeniable?” Louis says, nodding along to what Harry’s saying.

“Yeah.”

Louis gulps, feeling a bit naked, exposed as he opens his mouth to try and explain the unexplainable.

“Well, that’s my favourite thing about the island. The way my head, my heart, feels at peace here. I mean, I like the view of course, and I like the quiet. I like the fact that I can walk the entirety of the island easily whenever I want because it’s so small. I like the fact that I’m not bothered by people, that I get to live in peace and alone. I like the rain. I like the wind, even though it’s always too strong and I have to fight against it. I like the cliffs and how gorgeous they are. How they stand tall and proud, unmovable. I like the darkness of the sea, the strength of the waves. I like the sound they make, muted through the lantern room windows, late at night when I’m reading. I like the people who live here even though they’re a bit old fashioned. I like all of that, and so much more. But I _love_ the way I feel when I’m here, like I’m the truest version of myself.”

Louis pants a little when he’s done, feels like he’s just run a marathon from the way he just… bared his truth like that, with barely any probing from Harry. He looks away, feeling the prickle of Harry’s unmoving stare all over his skin. He’s being watched, maybe judged, certainly observed carefully. It’s not fully unpleasant, but he can’t help but feel like maybe he’s revealed too much. That he’s revealed things no one could ever understand.

Finally, after what feels like a small eternity, Harry clears his throat, then whispers a small “thank you.”

They don’t talk about it again.

&

The next evening, Louis can’t help but startle a little when Harry walks into the kitchen just as he was about to start cooking. He strolls in lazily, waving at Louis instead of greeting him properly and heading straight to the sink to wash his hands.

“Anything I can do to help?” Harry asks as he dries his hands, leaning against the counter, his black sweatpants low on his waist and the sleeves of his plain white tee rolled up against his biceps.

They didn’t plan this and, even though Harry mentioned how awkward it is not having any cooking to do, Louis didn’t expect him to actually act up on it. Truthfully, he had assumed last night was a one-time thing, something Harry felt forced to do to alleviate his guilt at being pampered and that it wouldn’t happen again. Yet here he is once more, prepared to help, putting his money where his mouth is and actually offering his time and labour. Louis shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

Still, he pretends like he isn’t and smiles, handing Harry a bag of potatoes. “Feel up to peeling these?” Louis says, more an affirmation than a question as he proceeds to give Harry a knife and a chopping board.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Brilliant,” Louis says, hating the way his voice sounds relieved for a second there. He risks a glance towards Harry, displeased to see the puzzled look on his face. Clearly, the relief hasn’t gone as unnoticed as Louis would have liked. “I hate peeling potatoes,” he admits with an eye roll. “It’s the worst,” he says in a whisper, putting emphasis on the last word.

“What?” Harry laughs, grabbing a medium sized one and getting to work straight away with an ease Louis can’t help but envy. “Why? It’s not like it’s particularly hard work. I mean, there are way worse veggies to deal with. Have you met onions? They make everything taste delicious, but at what cost.”

“Nope,” Louis says, shaking his head vehemently. “Hard disagree,” he adds, giving Harry an incredulous look before burying himself into the fridge, taking some cheese out for his potato bake as well as some chicken. “I’d pick cutting a hundred onions over peeling one potato any day.”

“That is literally insane,” Harry laughs. He’s done with the first one, to Louis’ great annoyance.

He shakes his head, reaching for a pot and filling it with water before offering it to Harry so he can put the potatoes in.

“You really need to explain yourself to me on this one,” Harry insists, cutting it in two before dropping it in.

Louis frowns, then points at the pot. “I just can’t do _that_ ,” he whispers.

Harry’s face drops and he glances down into the pot with suspicious eyes. “What the hell does that mean?” he asks, tilting his head with a disbelieving smile growing on his face.

“You peeled it all... thin and easy!” Louis exclaims, pointing at the discarded peels. “Whenever I try the potato literally reduces half in size because I can’t seem to do it without taking out massive chunks of the thing. S’annoying.”

Harry bites his lower lip, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Mmmhmm,” he says, clearly struggling not to make fun of Louis.

“You can laugh.” Louis gives him permission while wrinkling his nose in distaste and Harry snorts immediately.

“Sorry,” he says through the laugh. “Sorry. It’s just…” He shakes his head, grabbing another potato. “I can teach you, if you want?” he offers kindly, moving closer to Louis. “It’s really easy, you just have to be careful and –” he stops when he notices the dark look Louis is throwing his way. “Or maybe not,” he mumbles, moving back to stand in front of his cutting board.

“Do you know how many people have tried to teach me this particular skill?” Louis asks through gritted teeth, years of failure fresh in his memory. “It’s a lot. A lot of people Harold. A lot of people a lot of times. Yes, some of them tried more than once. And can I peel a potato without wasting half of it?” Louis waits with an impatient look on his face he can’t seem to tame no matter how much he wants to.

It’s one of those little things he finds endlessly frustrating and no matter how hard he tries, he never manages to be successful. It’s gotten to the point where he only buys big potatoes so he doesn’t feel like a complete and utter failure. The tiny ones he basically wastes more than half of and it’s such a humiliating process that Louis can’t bear it. He’s generally good at things. And if not good, then at least good enough. This, though, he never mastered and he hates it.

“With that murderous look in your eyes, I’m going to guess no, you can’t?” Harry says, laughing when Louis rolls his eyes angrily and starts cutting the chicken breasts in strips. “So you can’t peel a potato…” Harry shrugs. “No big deal. It’s kind of funny. And sweet.” He pauses. “Even with a peeler?”

Louis gives him such a glare that Harry’s eyes widen and he mouths “okay” to himself before changing the conversation topic without a smooth transition.

“I finished the romance novel,” he says, lacking subtlety, his eyes focused on his work.

Louis really hates the way he’s making it so easy. Louis can’t even do it with a peeler.

How unfair.

“You did?” Louis engages in the new conversation, forcing himself to think about something else and to appreciate the olive branch Harry is offering him.  

“Yep,” Harry confirms, grabbing a new potato. “How many of these do we need?”

Louis looks down into the pot, pursing his lips as he evaluates. “Two or three more I’d say? It’d be nice to have leftovers for later.”

“Alright,” Harry nods, carrying on.

Louis waits for a few seconds before speaking again. “So?”

“So… what?”

“I’m waiting for that book report, Mister.”

“Oh!” Harry exclaims. “Right, I did say I’d do that, uh.”

“You did and I am eager to listen to your verdict.”

Harry hums. “Overall? Not bad. I mean, it’s definitely not the best I’ve read in the genre if I’m completely honest.”

Louis hums in agreement, nodding his head as he grabs a frying pan for his chicken. “Of course, of course. And you are a great connoisseur of the romance novel, aren’t you?” he asks, expecting Harry to deny it.

“You’d be surprised what one does to distract oneself on the road,” Harry says, then he stiffens for a second before gulping and starting to speak again, quicker this time. “Anyways, I have thoughts about the book.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Louis says.

“So, at first I thought the Duke was swoon-worthy? But now that I’m done, I’m kind of disappointed. If I’m reading a romance novel, I better want to bang the hero by the end of it otherwise what a waste. Straight people fantasies are so boring,” Harry huffs, dropping two halves of a potato in the pot. “Like… okay, he’s hot and she says so literally every other paragraph, but he’s so dull. I don’t think they had one interesting conversation in the whole novel. At first, I thought he was really smooth. There’s this one scene where he recites poetry to her?”

Louis smirks. “I remember.”

“Yeah, and I was like: oh okay, they’ve gone for an intellectual protagonist. Brainy, not brawny. You know the type? But no. He was just stupid the whole time and maybe had memorised three lines of poetry once.”

“I mean, she could do worse than pretty but dumb. It’s a lot of people’s fantasy. Especially in men.”

Harry laughs, a loud squeaky thing that doesn’t sound like it should come out of his mouth but is somehow quite endearing. “Yeah,” he agrees, still giggling. “I guess guys who think they are too clever can be unbearable. God knows I’ve dated a few of those.”

Louis clicks his tongue. “Haven’t we all?” he replies, raising his eyebrows. “Our heroine got the better end of the bargain. She’s the brain of the relationship and he worships her.”

“Sure, sure,” Harry agrees before starting to gesticulate, arguing his point with large hand gestures. “But romance novels are meant to be wish fulfilment, right? Just give her the whole package! A man she can fantasise about and love fucking, who respects her and isn’t boring. Someone she can hold a conversation with!”

“Fair enough,” Louis replies. Harry’s got a point after all. “You’ve thought about this a lot more than I expected you to, to be honest,” he jokes, reaching down in one of the cupboards to grab his grater.

“Well, you asked for a book report so… You know… I took my homework seriously.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure we just agreed on a top ten scenes, but I’m glad you thought about it in depth!”

“Oh!” Harry gasps. He wrinkles his nose adorably. “I actually forgot about that.” He pauses, grimacing. “I don’t think I liked ten scenes enough for a top ten…”

“And you say you thought the book ‘wasn’t bad,’” Louis teases, making quotations marks with his fingers.

“It wasn’t! I can…” he frowns, looking pensive for a second. “I can probably do a top three?”

“Top three best scenes?”

Harry nods.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Number three has to be their first meeting. It was hilarious. The way he accidentally offended her and she just… straight up left without saying anything? That was funny,” Harry nods to himself like he’s approving of his own choice. “Number two… Probably the poetry scene actually. I had high hopes it was gonna be a thing by then and I was a bit… into him at that point.”

“So poetry is the way to your heart, that’s interesting,” Louis comments absently before realising how easily misinterpreted that statement could be. He feels himself flush and he swallows hard, mentally trying to find a way to make it sound like anything else than him wanting to know how to seduce Harry.

Harry thankfully either doesn’t notice or chooses not to tease Louis about it.

“I love words, especially when they’re used skillfully,” he replies absently before moving on like he hasn’t revealed something fascinating. “Now, the number one absolute best scene in the novel has to be when he gives her head in the mysterious ‘alcove’ during the ball.”

“Harry!” Louis snorts, somehow surprised by the choice. “Really? Straight sex? That’s your number one choice.” Louis tuts disapprovingly. “I’m disappointed mate.”

Harry shrugs easily, not at all shamed by his choice. “It was unexpected. And kind of dangerous. They could have been discovered at any time. Him underneath her dress? Scandalous. So fucking raunchy.”

There’s something about the tone of his voice that has Louis suspicious and he narrows his eyes as he grabs the pot filled with potatoes from him, finally putting them on the stove to boil.

“Are you kidding?” Louis asks, suddenly doubtful.

“The entire book was terrible, of course, I’m kidding,” Harry replies, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. Most of my guests _love_ my smutty romance novel selections.”

“Listen, I’m a rom-com expert,” Harry argues, voice going up as he becomes more passionate. “I pride myself on my excellent taste when it comes to romance and that? That was not up to my standards.”

Louis looks down at the counter, fiddling with the cheese and the grater, trying to stop himself from smiling. He’s failing, he knows he is and it should be worrying, but he can’t help himself. There’s something unbearably endearing about the fact that Harry, silent and broody Harry, loves romance so much he gets offended when it’s not swoon-worthy enough.

They keep talking about romcoms for the rest of the evening, well into the night, and by the time they’re walking Clifford on the beach in the dark, they’re still going at it. Harry wasn’t lying when he said he had standards and Louis finds himself nodding along and agreeing to even his most colourful and silly arguments. It’s a new side to his guest that he wasn’t expecting and he finds himself surprised that, even after hours of aimless chatter about an idle topic, he still doesn’t feel bored.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry, staying true to his word, helps Louis cook every night for the next three weeks. He shows up between five o’clock and half-past, every single night, ready to help and be bossed around. He’s skilled in the kitchen too, Louis realises pretty quickly, wasn’t lying about loving to cook and not minding pitching in. Soon enough, he starts offering suggestions to improve some of Louis’ recipes, even gives him some tips and tricks to make things easier for him. From anyone else, Louis would find it intrusive and rude, but there’s something charming about Harry’s eagerness, about the way he so genuinely wants to help and wants Louis to improve. He often argues his points with big hand gestures, supplementing his argument with quick google searches on Louis’ phone, waving the mobile in Louis’ face with a triumphant look in his eyes, ridiculously happy that allrecipes.co.uk seem to agree with his technique to cut mushrooms.

Slowly, they get to know each other.

Harry, for the most part, remains an enigma Louis can’t quite crack. He never reveals anything truly personal about himself and even though they’ve spent hours together every day, Louis still doesn’t know where he actually lives, what he does for work, or even what led him to a short exile on Fair Isle. It’s alright though, Louis figures. He gets to know different things about Harry, little things he doesn’t seem to find important enough to hide, but that Louis is getting addicted to. Like the fact that he wasn’t kidding when he said his sister was the smartest sibling, that she’s an investigative journalist of all things and that Harry is so ridiculously proud of her he looks like he’s going to burst from it when he talks about her, green eyes sparkling. Like the fact that he genuinely does love romance novels, devours them when he’s not busy writing in that little notebook of his before roasting them mercilessly to Louis’ delight. One night, he reenacts one of the smuttiest sex scenes in the book to the best of his memory, critiquing every single thing like he’s doing his own stand up on it, and he makes Louis laugh so hard that he accidentally cuts his finger. He’s so apologetic about inadvertently hurting his host that he bakes Louis vegan banana muffins the next day. Like the fact that he loves music and he takes it extremely seriously, taking control of Louis’ Spotify every night to curate the mood of their cooking according to his whims. His taste is eclectic and when he’s not singing along to whatever he picked with a surprisingly gorgeous deep voice, he’s rambling and giving Louis facts about the artist and production of the songs easily. He’s deeply knowledgeable, admiring not only the artistry of music, but the hard work and the process beneath it. It’s a way of listening Louis never experienced before and he finds himself hanging on every word without realising.

In return, Louis tells Harry stories about his past guests, even though it’s unprofessional to do so and he probably shouldn’t. But Harry is slowly becoming his friend, the line between guest and acquaintance blurring more and more with every day that passes. So Louis forgets he’s not in the offseason with a mate hanging around and he tells him about the weird, the unusual, the sweet….  He tells him about the fights and the proposals; all of his favourite memories from the people that have crossed his threshold. And Harry listens with rapt attention, revealing more about himself than he probably realises just by the way he’s so attentive, so captivated by stories filled with strangers. Because as much as Louis has noticed that Harry loves being alone, it’s obvious he loves people too. Genuinely.

All in all, Harry is animated when spending time with Louis in the kitchen in a way he never expected him to be, not when he was so taciturn, so sad, when he first arrived. Now that they’ve formed a tentative camaraderie, Louis can recognise a lot of it was probably timidity, though the cloud of sorrow hanging over Harry’s head that Louis first spotted definitely hasn’t vanished.

Once in a while, Harry will show up to the kitchen in a sour mood, dark circles under his eyes and carrying himself like his bones are too heavy. He’s still helpful, listening to Louis’ instructions and never shying away from his duties, but he’s barely there at all. He cuts vegetables and grates cheese and cooks meat and washes dishes without saying a single word, a shadow of himself which upsets Louis a lot more now than he actually knows what Harry is normally like. On those nights, he’ll only open his mouth to agree to one of Louis’ requests, the usual banter between them completely absent. Worst of all, he never comments on the music Louis puts on, never makes grabby hands towards the phone to take control, doesn’t make specific song requests. Sometimes, he’ll even politely ask Louis to turn the music off, a sign that things are truly dire.

Louis never pushes.

He obeys and turns the music off, trying to mask his concern, his empathy, under a blank face, looking sad only briefly and when Harry isn’t looking.

He does wonder though. He wonders what happens on those mornings that Harry wakes up all out of sorts, the weight of living so visible in the tense lines of his face, in his nervous fiddling.  He wonders if there’s anything he could say to make it better, wonders if he could share the heavy load somehow. He wonders if there’s anything _anyone_ could say that would make it better.

But Harry has established clear boundaries and Louis would never cross them. So on those nights, Louis doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t probe. Following Harry’s lead, he keeps quiet, letting him retire early and going down to the beach by himself to walk Clifford, hating the silence that accompanies him intensely even though he and Harry don’t usually chat by that point of the evening when they walk it together.

That specific night, Harry walks into the kitchen with red eyes, his body language very clearly spelling _do not bother me,_ so Louis puts him to work straight away without asking if he’s had a nice day. Instead, he lets him prepare a quick tomato sauce while Louis boils water for pasta. He was originally planning something a little more elaborate, something that would take them at least an hour to prepare, but considering how utterly miserable Harry looks, Louis doesn’t want to impose his company on him a second longer than necessary.

He’ll probably want to go back to his moping straight away, Louis thinks sadly as he watches Harry stir the sauce carefully. Louis sighs, joining him in front of the stove to put the pasta into the boiling water, both of them shoulder to shoulder, the silence heavy in a way it usually isn’t.

After a while, to Louis’ surprise, Harry speaks without being prompted.

“Do you think…” he starts saying, frowning at the pot, before he stops himself, shaking his head.

“I try to avoid it actually,” Louis jokes unimaginatively to break the tension. “I avoid having unnecessary worries that way.”

It’s a testament to Harry’s relatively easy-going personality that, even in clear distress, he doesn’t chide Louis for his stupid, unfiltered, babble.

He doesn’t smile though, the frown on his face still going strong, stronger even. He keeps stirring the sauce slowly, watching as it starts bubbling a little too intensely for a second before reducing the heat.

He clears his throat, then tries again. “Do you think you could… just… distract me? Please?”

When Louis turns his head to look at him – at the straight line of his nose, the curve of his lips, the blush on his cheeks – Harry clenches his jaw visibly.

“Sure,” Louis replies before starting to tell an elaborate story about his youngest siblings.

And he doesn’t stop.

They finish cooking and Louis talks. They sit down to eat and Louis talks. They finish the meal and Louis talks. He just babbles on and on, one hundred percent certain that Harry isn’t listening to a single word he’s saying. He talks about Lottie and her career as a makeup artist. He talks about both sets of twins and the various troubles they gave him when they were little. He talks about nappies, bath time, story time. He talks about his first job, his second job, his third job. He talks about getting fired over and over before becoming his own boss. He talks until their plates are empty and his voice is hoarse.

Harry remains eerily silent.

When they’re done eating, Harry hovers near the door, playing with the rubber band around his wrist, snapping it a few times against the thin skin there and it reddens immediately.

To Louis’ surprises, he speaks again, not before clearing his throat deeply though.

“Is it… Would it be alright if I let you take care of the dishes tonight?” he asks, looking a bit embarrassed at the request.

“Of course,” Louis replies kindly, feeling like Harry might start crying the way relief spreads over his face.

In a second, he’s vanished from the kitchen and into the depths of the cottage.

&

Every hope that Louis entertained about Harry’s mood improving overnight gets crushed when he makes his way down the main staircase the next morning looking like he hasn’t slept at all. His hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking in every direction like maybe he’s been running his fingers angrily through it all night and the dark circles under his eyes have only gotten worse. He’s wearing an old white Rolling Stones tee that’s so old it’s basically threadbare, with a hole so big on the chest that Louis is pretty sure he can see a nipple. He’s got his faithful green jacket on and what looks like a too large beige cardigan underneath.

“Hey,” Louis calls from reception, smiling at him.

Harry nods back, eyes barely flicking to Louis’ face before he looks away. He whistles and Clifford comes running down the corridor, obeying him straight away and sniffing down the pockets of Harry’s Adidas sweatpants in search of treats now that he’s started carrying them around as Louis does.

They’re about to leave the cottage without a word in Louis’ direction when he stops them with a strangled “wait!”

Harry turns around in the door, giving Louis a puzzled frown, but he’s already running down the corridor and into the living room, not caring that he looks a bit insane right now. He grabs a thick blue scarf off the coat peg and runs back to the entrance. Once there, he awkwardly wraps it around Harry’s neck without meeting his eyes.

“It’s quite chilly today,” he explains quickly as he secures the scarf. “Temperature’s really dropped and the wind is pretty bad, especially near the water. You’ll need it, trust me.”

He looks up at Harry’s face as he says the last part, not quite able to read the emotion that flickers on his face.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, hiding his face under the wool scarf.

“No problem,” Louis replies as Harry turns around and opens the door. “Have a good walk,” he calls to Harry’s back.

It still hurts when he doesn’t get a reply, even though he wasn’t expecting one.

He’s hoovering one of the empty rooms, big laundry baskets with fresh linens and towels left in the corridor when Harry makes a reappearance. To Louis’ surprise, he doesn’t walk past the commotion to head straight to his bedroom. Instead, he steps over the baskets and hangs in the doorway, leaning against it with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his cardigan. Louis tries not to let the hawklike way Harry is staring at him distract him from the task at hand.

He can’t concentrate though, the beats of his heart somehow louder than the hoover in his ears as he nervously tries to remember how to behave like a normal person when he’s being scrutinised like this.

Finally, after what he feels like an eternity of Louis leaning awkwardly to hoover under the bed while Harry just… stares, he turns the machine off and faces his guest with an amused smile on his face.

“Can I help you?” Louis asks one hand on his hips, the other still holding the top of the hoover.

Harry blinks.

“Did you need anything?” Louis insists, not unkindly.

“No, no… I just…” Harry looks around, shifting his weight to lean ever so slightly against the doorway. He looks over his shoulder, back into the corridor at the laundry baskets. “Why are you changing the sheets in all the rooms if there’s no one but me here?” he asks and it’s clearly not why he’s been standing here staring at Louis, but he’ll take it.

“Well, I’m still open, aren’t I?” he says, turning the hoover on again. “Can’t exactly do nothing all day, can I? What if someone shows up looking for a room this afternoon? Drop-ins do happen, I mean… You’re proof of that.”

“Right,” Harry chuckles, small and not really amused. It sounds more like a habit than anything else and Louis really hates when he does that. He would rather weather the storm of Harry’s honesty than face this diluted, amicable, _fake_ version of him.

Louis takes a second to look at him. Properly.

He looks better than the night before at least, certainly better than this morning. He might not be laughing with the sincerity Louis has gotten used to, but he no longer looks utterly miserable. The dark circles under his eyes haven’t miraculously vanished and his hair is still messy, but it looks windswept now, organic rather than caused by nervous energy. He seems calmer too, more settled, and there’s a healthy flushed to his cheeks. The wind’s work, no doubt, but it makes him look a little better. He looks good, really, if a little tired. No longer like he’s two seconds away from crying at least, which Louis will always consider an improvement.

“Can I help?” Harry asks, gesturing towards the room.

Louis frowns. “You don’t have to,” he replies automatically, mentally hating himself for the fact that this is truly becoming his new catchphrase.

On cue, Harry’s lips turn up slightly and it’s not a laugh, not even a full smile, but that one’s honest, Louis can tell. And that makes it so much better.

Harry bites his lower lip, before nodding. “I know.”

“Really though,” Louis insists, loud over the sound of the hoover. He finally covers the last corner of the room as he explains: “if this is… some sort of penance for last night’s dishes, you really really really don’t have to.” Done talking, Louis turns the hoover off and goes to unplug it, clicking the plug off too.

At that, Harry does smile, a bit timidly. “I know,” he repeats, insistent this time. “It’s not, trust me. Just… Just want to keep busy. And help.”

“Well, I’m not going to say no to that, am I?” Louis says as he walks past Harry, gently nudging his bicep. He grabs one of the laundry baskets filled with towels and hands it over to Harry while grabbing one full of linens for himself. “Think you can fold these towels properly? I’ll take care of the bed.”

Harry nods, following Louis into the room and sitting down in the armchair tucked away in one of the corners. He spreads his legs and places the basket on the floor between them. “You know,” he starts conversationally, looking down at the flowery pattern of the armchair, “I have a suit with that exact pattern.”

Louis stops his movement to grab one of the pillowcase and stares. “Really?” he asks, more curiosity than judgement in his voice as he looks down at what has been dubbed by most of his friends and family the “granny sofa”. It’s nothing truly wild, just a pale turquoise background and patterns of flowers in various shades of pink. A bold choice for fashion though, he can’t deny that.

Harry nods. “Yeah, it’s pretty.”

“Would not have taken you for a wild pattern kind of boy Twist, but interesting,” Louis jokes. “I guess that explains why you always end up wearing my craziest jumpers.”

Harry blushes, looking down at the basket as he grabs a towel and starts folding it perfectly. Louis shouldn’t be impressed, it’s just folding after all, but he’s had help from careless, messy people before and he can’t help but appreciate the neat perfectionism of Harry’s gestures.

“I do love a bold pattern,” Harry admits without shame.

Louis nods, tucking one of the pillows in a pillowcase. “Good for you,” he replies. “You’re good at that,” he comments.  

Harry snorts, putting the now perfectly folded towel on one of the chair’s arms. “It’s folding laundry,” he says with distaste, “it’s not like it’s rocket science. Any idiot can do it.”

At that, Louis laughs. “Oh honey, you would be surprised. Me mate’s Stan? I thought I could trust him with towel duties once. Big mistake. Huge. To be fair, his girlfriend does all of his laundry for him and I’m pretty sure he’s never folded anything in his life, which… is extremely embarrassing and pathetic of him. But I suppose I’m the one to blame, thinking I could trust him with such a basic task.”

Warmth spreads in Louis’ chest when it gets a sincere laugh out of Harry. Feels like days since he’s heard it and he’s not sure he wants to examine too closely why he feels so much relief now that he has again.

“That is embarrassing for him,” Harry agrees.

“Yep. But still, don’t undermine your work. Not everyone is as precise. Even people with experience,” Louis jokes.

Harry shrugs, putting another perfectly folded towel aside. “I spent a lot of time in hotels,” he reveals, “must have learned something, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees. It shouldn’t feel like new information, considering Harry’s mentioned travelling a lot before, but Louis can’t help the zing of thrill coursing through his body at the revelation.

They keep working in silence for a while, Louis only struggling a little with the fitted sheet. Harry’s humming under his breath, a sad ballad Louis could swear he’s heard before, but can’t name.

“ _Why are we always fucking running from… the bullets…”_ Harry sings and Louis risks a glance his way.

“Sorry,” Harry blushes, clearing his throat.

“S’alright,” Louis says, efficiently fitting the duvet into its cover. “You have a lovely voice. I don’t mind.”

Harry looks a bit caught, a bit embarrassed, by the compliment, like he’d rather do anything in the world but be having this conversation. He keeps very still, looking at Louis straight in the eyes and he seems to be waiting for Louis to tell him he’s joking or something. It's like he’s waiting for Louis to say something devastating and he’s bracing himself for it.

“I mean it,” Louis insists, “you don’t have to look at me like that, all…keyed up. I’m not gonna turn around and tease you.”

Harry’s shoulders sag in relief at that and he passes a shaky hand through his hair.

“It’s a shame your band didn’t work out,” Louis says kindly, finding that he actually means it. “You’ve certainly got the voice for a record deal.”

Somehow, Harry looks even more relieved at that. “That wasn’t…” He shakes his head. “That was nothing,” he says, playing it cool. “That wasn’t me singing properly or anything. It’s nothing. I… Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says, surprised at his insistence. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“No, you didn’t, it’s not… I just.. Don’t wanna talk about… my old band and stupid dreams and stuff.”

Louis nods. “Of course.”

“There’s uh… There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s why I came up here, actually.”

“Oh, alright. Go for it.”

“I just wanted to apologise.”

Louis frowns, stopping his fussing over the bed. “What on Earth for?”

Harry looks deadly serious. “Louis,” he says, voice firm.

Louis sighs at the sound, stopping his work and sitting down on the bed, facing Harry. “You don’t have anything to apologise for.”

“I really do,” Harry insists, voice trembling. “I’m sorry about last night. I uh… Yesterday morning, I had a… an emotional… I mean, a difficult phone call with my sponsor. I had a lot on my mind. Kind of fucked me up a bit, just… Put me in this… really introspective mood. And I just… become a bit of a non-verbal asshole when I’m like that. So yeah, I’m sorry. I know I’m not the easiest guest to have around and you’ve been incredibly welcoming. I do appreciate that. It’s just… I don’t know, it’s hard sometimes. And the things he said to me, I found them very confronting and I just…”

Louis’ heart squeezes in his chest. “You don’t have to tell me,” he interrupts, not wanting Harry to regret revealing those things to him. “You don’t owe me anything, right?”

“I know,” Harry nods, eyes wet. “I know that. I just… I’ve been a dick sometimes. And I’m sorry. And I’m even sorrier that it might happen again.”

Louis smiles. “You really weren’t a dick, you know that, right?” He knows he sounds insistent, but Harry literally looks like he’s killed Louis’ dog or something, rather than just withdrawn into himself a little while he was dealing with something hugely personal. And Louis really needs him to understand the difference. “You were just… a bit sad? a bit quiet? You weren’t rude or anything. So truly, no biggie. It happens. You certainly don’t have to apologise for that.”

Harry’s eyelashes flutter as he looks down, carefully folding the towel in his hands, taking his time. “Thanks,” he finally replies after a while.

Louis gets up from the bed and rearranges the pillows until he’s satisfied. When he’s done with the bed, he walks back to the corridor, grabbing another laundry basket of towels and setting it next to Harry’s on the floor. Then he sits down on the floor next to it and starts folding with him. He works in silence for a while before the urge to say something becomes too urgent.

“Can I ask you a question?” Louis says, voice raspy. He probably shouldn’t push so soon after Harry’s started opening up, especially when he stopped him from revealing too much earlier. But there’s a difference between Harry slipping up in trying to apologise and Louis giving him the option to refuse when he asks a direct question.

“You ask that a lot,” Harry comments, without actually answering, making Louis laugh.

“Well I’m getting to know you and I’m a polite person, I was raised well, so…”

Harry hums but when Louis looks up at him from the floor, he doesn’t look upset by the request.

“You can ask me a question.”

“Tell me to fuck off if I’m overstepping, but…” Louis only hesitates for a second before continuing, “I was wondering how long you’ve been sober.”

“Oh.” It escapes Harry’s mouth almost disappointingly like it truly wasn’t what he was expecting Louis to ask. “Hum… Not that long actually, just passed seven months.”

Louis whistles in appreciation. “That’s a long time actually, congratulations.”

Harry’s face brightens, a large genuine smile taking over his features, two deep dimples nestling in his cheeks. He looks down at the towel resting on his knees and Louis takes a second to observe the way he holds himself, curled like he doesn’t want to take too much space.

When Harry looks back up, Louis feels caught, but he doesn’t look away.

“Thank you,” Harry replies. He drums his fingers on the towel for a few seconds before getting back to work. “It’s partly why I’m here,” he says, almost absently like Louis hasn’t been wondering for weeks now.  “I just… I got out of rehab and I really wasn’t ready to go… back, to my regular life… not straight away.” He scrunches his nose, sniffing, and for one second, Louis thinks he’s crying, but he carries on speaking like normal. “My job is… it’s complicated. It’s really complicated.”

He says it mostly to himself, without really elaborating on what he means. Louis doesn’t even know what he could possibly ask to make this clearer, having no idea what the fuck Harry does for a living. In between the pause Harry takes between two breaths, Louis makes a mental list of everything he knows about Harry’s job.

  1. Harry travels a lot.
  2. Specifically, Harry goes to the US a lot.
  3. Harry owns more than one house.
  4. Harry clearly has money.



It’s not much to go on and Louis could list a dozen high-ranking white collar jobs that could fit those four criteria. Harry’s a bit young for most of them, of course, but he could easily be the heir to some random fortune and Louis would never have any idea. Though he supposes the small village upbringing might not fit that picture.

He’s distracted away from his speculation when Harry starts talking again and when their eyes met, Harry rolls his.

“So many fucking triggers,” he says with disgust. “I mean… I started drinking too much because I couldn’t cope with it. It was just a little, at first. Just a little every day… to get through all the… all the bullshit, you know? Then it was more, just to numb the anxiety. Even drugs sometimes,” he admits in a lower voice. “Though not… It wasn’t my main vice, but still… And the triggers are still there. The job hasn’t magically changed because I was away. And I used to love it Louis, I used it to love it so much. But I don’t know if I can ever love it again, not after everything. Even if I’m sober now and I have an understanding of what led me here… Even if I know how to recognise the signs and how to ask for help… The triggers are still there, lurking in the shadows… waiting to get me.” He seems to get out of a trance then, looking at Louis with wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, shaking his head. “Bloody hell,” he swears, “you don’t care about that shit.” He laughs, a bit manic. “You don’t even know me,” he adds, looking both incredulous and relieved by that fact. “You don’t even know me,” he repeats in a whisper.

“Harry,” Louis calls in a gasp, reaching for his wrist and grasping it firmly, trying to squeeze all the nervous energy out of him, trying to absorb it where their bare skin touch. “Obviously I’d never force you to talk about this stuff, but don’t say I don’t care. That’s not true.” Louis squeezes Harry’s wrist again, forcing him to meet his gaze. “That’s not true at all.”

At that, Harry just… crumbles. “I just needed more time,” he admits with a wet gasp, eyes shining.  

“Of course you did,” Louis whispers, sliding a soothing hand up Harry’s arm.

“My family’s really supportive. They really are. If I… If I didn’t want to go back straight away, I could have gone home. I really could have. But… I know they all want me to go back to work. My family, my friends, my… Everyone wants me to get back to work. How… How am I supposed to figure out if I even still want to –”

“Oh love,” Louis whispers, pushing the baskets away and folding Harry into an awkward hug, Harry still in the armchair and him on his knees, their bodies not quite fitting together considering the angle.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of figuring myself out with everyone looking over my shoulders, not saying anything to me but having fucking deadlines in mind… I just wanted to be the furthest away from it all as possible. I just wanted to run to the edge of the universe.” He whispers it all in Louis’ shoulder, small and vulnerable.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers right back, stroking the nape of Harry’s neck. “You got here, you found us. Furthest place away from everything possible, that’s us. That’s here.”

Louis smiles when he hears Harry laugh wetly in his ear.

“You found us,” he repeats, squeezing Harry’s body.

&

Eventually, they finish the rest of the rooms together, remaking beds and placing towels in every ensuite. As they work, Harry is quiet in a different way, looking a bit emotionally drained, but not quite as devastated as before. Halfway through, Louis offers his phone to him, Spotify app open, telling him “pick something good, you have better taste than me” and Harry makes a quick playlist for them. That’s a thing he’s been doing recently, not just selecting playlists for them to listen to, but actually doubling the number of playlists on Louis’ account, creating random ones with quirky titles like ‘the feeling of sunshine on your face when you tilt your head back with your eyes closed’, ‘soft winter heart on a soft winter day’,  or ‘songs to dance to when you don’t know how to dance’. There’s one titled ‘vintage heartbreak for a modern boy’ that Louis has surprised himself by falling in love with it, filled with old sad songs from the 50s, 60s and 70s in various languages. Harry’s also been sneakily adding and deleting songs from Louis’ existing playlists, though Louis suspects he thinks he’s gotten away with it. Louis would be mad, but he’s made his usual running mix a lot better so…

By the time they’re done with the morning cleaning, Louis is starving so he goes to the kitchen by himself, barring Harry from entering to help and promising him a nice lunch on top of the tower if he can just be a little patient. He puts together two quick salads using some chicken leftovers, balancing them carefully in his hands as he makes his way up the spiral staircase, with a poetry book tucked in the back pocket of his jeans.

“I’ve got food,” he exclaims once he’s up there, laughing when he sees Clifford curled up on Harry’s lap where he’s sitting crossed legs on the rug, back against the bench. “Someone’s comfy,” Louis comments, nodding towards where Clifford’s head is nestled on Harry’s thigh before handing him his food and sitting down next to him. Shoulders to shoulders.

Harry looks down and shrugs. “I was surprised he wanted to climb along, to be honest, he rarely seems to want to be up here.”

Louis nods. “Yeah, that staircase is a bit tricky for him. He’s almost too big for it… Sometimes I have to carry him down like a baby after he’s made his way up here. He makes it up and then he’s like… oh no I actually don’t want to do this. He’s so dumb,” Louis says affectionately towards his baby, reaching across Harry’s body to scratch his ears. “Yes you are,” he confirms before realising he’s leaning all over Harry’s lap. “Oops,” he chuckles, leaning away.

Harry, bless him, doesn’t seem bothered as he takes a huge bite of salad. “This is good,” he comments once he’s swallowed. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Louis eats a few bites before speaking again. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to say something to you… Nothing bad,” he adds when Harry’s head turns sharply towards him. “S’just… Mr Drummond mentioned you making calls every day at the phone box and earlier, you said something about calling your sponsor and I figured that’s probably what you’re doing there. I obviously don’t want to pry but… you could call him here if you need. I don’t make a habit of listening to my guest’s phone calls and like… I could even leave the cottage if that makes you feel better. You don’t have to go all the way to the village to phone.”

Harry chews silently, body very still. He swallows after a while and Louis can’t help but watch the way his throat moves.

“Mr Drummond told you I was making phone calls?” he asks, slow and careful, his face betraying nothing.

Louis thinks he might be upset.

“Yeah, he said something about people in the village noticing and talking about it. I think they thought it was –”

“People in the village are talking about it?” Harry asks, voice rising an octave.

“Not in like…” Louis gesticulates with his fork, trying to find the right words. “They don’t know anything,” he says as reassuring as possible. “It’s a small village, you grew up in one. You know how people are when they’re bored. They don’t mean anything by it. All I’m saying is… if you want more privacy, you’re welcome to use the b&b’s line. There’s a phone in your room. I know you don’t have one. Well, I mean you’re… I assume you have a mobile, but not with you so you know. I’ll give you privacy if that’s what you need. I can’t imagine it’s fun to have a personal conversation where anyone could watch...”

“I… that’s kind, but… I kind of like the routine I’ve established here. It’s… important to me. And the walk back to the lighthouse after… It gives me time to reflect and… I can just go down to the beach and _think_. It gives me time to just… settle into it, I suppose? I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense, I suppose, but I like that I’m… I’m having those phone calls in a neutral environment. I don’t think I want to… I don’t know, pollute my room with all of that. Not that all the calls are difficult, but you know. It’s nice to have a separate space to… put that.”

“Oh,” Louis exhales. “Of course, I didn't think of that.”

“It’s alright. Thank you for offering though.” Harry pauses. “I do have a phone,” he adds almost absently. “It’s somewhere at the bottom of my bag. I didn’t bring my charger so… S’not like I’m in the headspace to use it right now.”

“You’ve gone completely off the grid,” Louis teases and he’s surprised by the way Harry looks thoroughly amused.

“You have no idea, Louis,” Harry says before starting to eat again. “I mean, I write to my mum every few days. And my sister. I think she’d show up here, ready to rip my head off if I didn’t give her some sort of updates. Bless the bakery/coffee shop/only restaurant in town for its old computers, right?”

Louis laughs. “I guess. God, they’re almost as old as the monster at reception. Can you even Gmail on that?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s alright. S’just a few emails once in a while.”

“I meant it when I said you could use my laptop, you know?”

“I know.”

“But you like the routine,” Louis finishes for him, smiling softly.

“I think I need the routine. They say that’s an important part of like…” Harry gestures vaguely. “You know?”

Louis nods, though he doesn’t. Not really. He knows what folks usually know: stuff from films and tv shows, from stories on the news and a friend of a friend or a distant relative. He feels a little out of his element talking about this, heart beating a little faster than usual, palms a little sweaty, nervous he’s going to say the wrong thing. Nervous he’s going to hurt Harry’s feelings, or worse, fuck up his progress somehow. He’s gone with his instincts so far, said what felt right in the moment and hoped for the best, suppressing the fear that he’s supporting Harry wrong. The more Harry opens up though, the less he’s able to brush off the feeling that he’s really not equipped for this. He’s armed with nothing but good intentions and a big heart. It’s not failed him in the past, but he fears it might not be enough this time.

“They say going back to your regular life and like… maintaining a new healthy routine is important and since I’m not going back to my normal life straight away, I really want to nail the new routine thing.” Harry laughs a little self-deprecatingly. “I have to admit, helping you cook wasn’t like… entirely selfless on my part. Just felt like… like a good way to implement some normalcy into my life here. Just one more element added to the routine.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Louis deadpans. “I feel really cheated now.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, it was horribly manipulative of me,” he says, putting his empty salad bowl away and burying his fingers into Clifford’s curly fur.

“How very dare you,” Louis continues to joke, voice emotionless. “Helping me cook? And clean? For selfish reasons? Ugh. Vile.”

“Thank you,” Harry says seriously, instead of continuing the joke.

Louis smiles when their eyes meet. He frowns a little though, shaking his head, silently questioning. He verbalises his query a few seconds later. “What for?”

“Not treating me weirdly? Letting me talk about this? Taking away the wine lists that first night in the dining room without even asking me… anything. I mean, take your pick.”

“That wasn’t… I could just tell you were uncomfortable and I didn’t want you to be. It’s not… It’s nothing special. You don’t have to thank me for that. You keep thanking me for doing some really normal decent bloke shit and it makes me wonder if you just hang out with wankers all the time, or what.”

At that, Harry bursts into laughter. “I mean…” he tilts his head, before laughing again and it’s infectious.

“You need better friends, mate,” Louis warns once they’ve calmed down a bit.

“Yeah… Probably,” Harry says, before bending down to give Cliff a small kiss on the top of his head. “I mean, I have you and Clifford now, so I guess that’s a good start,” he adds, shyly, pointedly not looking back at Louis, eyes focused on the dog as he very carefully pets him, from the top of his head down the length of his body.

Something protective and fierce curls up in Louis’ chest, takes root, settles.

“You definitely do.”

That night, after they’ve walked Clifford in companionable silence and said goodnight near the reception desk, Louis curls up in bed with his laptop resting on his chest, opening tabs after tabs on addiction, on recovery, on how to best support someone on that path. He reads on until his laptop battery dips below thirty percent, slightly overwhelmed, but determined to get as much knowledge as he can.


	5. Chapter 5

The end of November arrives almost unnoticed. Or it would, if only for the tiny exception that the sun starts setting at half-three in the afternoon, then at quarter past, then at three, the daylight becoming this almost cryptid presence on the island, barely glimpsed until it vanishes again. It’s hard to live without the sun for so long sometimes, which is why Louis and Harry spend so much of their days either on the beach or on top of the tower, surrounded by windows. They soak up the light as much as possible until the almost never-ending night covers them again, day after day.

Louis isn’t surprised by it anymore which is why that specific afternoon, he barely glances up from his novel when the sun starts setting, simply moving along the bench towards the lamp in the lantern room to turn it on easily. Harry doesn’t startle either, keeps writing in his famous journal without paying Louis, or the lamp, any attention. He seems to be struggling a little today, writing pages and pages and then going back to read them over and sighing at what he finds there. Still, the sounds of whatever it is he’s creating have been accompanying Louis for days now which is why he barely pays attention and keeps reading the family drama he picked up the day before.

He’s fully immersed in the story when the light mysteriously goes out a few hours after sunset. Louis has been known to sink into a good book and forget the rest of the world before, but he knows deep in his bones that it’s nowhere near eleven.

He lets out a small sigh, putting his book aside and mumbling a tiny “of course”, mostly to himself as he reaches inside his pocket for his phone.

As he suspected, he’s already got quite a few texts from people in the village confirming they’re without power as well, and asking if he’s alright at the lighthouse.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, sounding puzzled, and maybe even a little worried. “What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Louis says reassuringly, not looking up from his device as he texts everyone back. “Just a power cut,” he adds, finally looking at Harry and giving him a warm smile. “It’s the whole island,” he explains, throwing his phone from one hand to the other.  “A few of the neighbours have texted, though we could hardly call them neighbours considering how far away they are.”

Louis clicks his tongue, then puts the phone back in his pocket, getting up from the bench and walking towards the chest in the middle of the room. He opens it and starts rummaging inside.

“It’s nothing to worry about, happens all the time,” Louis continues to explain as he keeps looking through the mess. “You’ve been quite lucky so far actually,” he comments as his hand wraps around a torch. “Here we are.” He throws it at Harry without really looking, satisfied when he doesn’t hear any groan of pain.

“Aren’t you worried?” Harry asks and when Louis turns around to look at him, he clicks his torch on, almost blinding Louis with it. “Oh! Sorry,” he laughs, pointing it away from Louis’ face.

“Why would I be worried? We literally live without power every night, it’s not like we aren’t used to it.”

“You run a business, a restaurant!” Harry insists. “What about your fridge? Your freezers?”

Louis shrugs, turning away to look into the chest again. “Night generator should be strong enough for a few extra hours. It comes on whenever the power cuts off and sustains the essential amenities, whether the outage is planned or not. Cuts are frequent, but rarely last long. Unless we’ve got a proper storm brewing, but we would have had a warning if that was the case. Should be fine.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Harry says, sounding one hundred percent unconvinced.

“It might surprise you to find that this isn’t the first time this has happened to me,” Louis jokes, finally finding a second torch. “Ah ha!” he says triumphantly, checking the battery is working before closing the chest. He makes his way back to the bench, and his book. “So yeah, should be all good tomorrow morning. Until then, we’ll have to use these early, sorry about that,” he says, waving the torch in Harry’s direction, making sure to keep the light beam away from his face.

Harry shrugs, face mostly hidden in the darkness. “It’s alright. S’not your fault.”

“Still, not exactly a life of luxury, uh?” Louis jokes, picking up his book and placing it on his thigh.

“That’s quite alright,” Harry says. “Actually, that’s great.” When Louis tilts his head to look at him, he’s biting his lower lip. “It’s… it’s weird actually,” Harry starts saying after a moment, “it’s what? Five o’clock? But it feels like it’s the middle of the night already.”

“That’s the joy of this place,” Louis says cheerfully, opening his book back to the intense passage he was reading. “We’re somewhere time’s forgotten,” he jokes softly.

“God, yeah,” Harry nods. He looks pensive for a second, fiddling with his journal for a moment before closing it with a thud. He puts it aside firmly. “You know… when you first mentioned that the sun would be setting this early at some point? I thought… this is going to be depressing as hell. But it’s actually... really nice.”

“You think so?” Louis asks, surprised.

Very few people have expressed similar thoughts though Louis has felt so for a long time now. Maybe it’s because he’s fully in charge of his schedule during the winter, so he can organise his tasks around enjoying the precious few hours of sunlight, but he’s always liked the idea of the world darkening as nature goes to sleep, winter taking over the world for a while. There’s something mysterious and a bit romantic about the way Fair Isle exists in the shadows for such a long time.

“Yeah, I… I don’t know, I guess I like this idea of being…” Harry hesitates, fiddling with the torch in his hand, making the ray of light move across the room and looking away from Louis’ face. “Unseen, like that.”

It should maybe sound like a red flag for a man that Louis barely knows and has welcomed into his home to talk like that, but the more he gets to know Harry, the more Louis thinks he understands. He might know next to nothing about his life outside of the bubble they inhabit here on the island, but Louis knows Harry has been deeply hurt by the world somehow. And that’s why he needed to run away so badly. So here they are, both of them clinging onto the edge of the world, bathed in darkness, the only two living souls in the universe, it feels like.

“Yeah?” Louis prompts, secretly hoping he might get more.

He can’t be blamed for feeling curious.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “It’s like… I don’t know, comforting? I’m not sure I can explain it.”

Louis presses his lips tightly together, stopping his smile from spilling. “Don’t worry. I really get it.”

Harry chuckles, then risks a small look in Louis’ direction. He observes him for a second and Louis can’t help but wonder what it is that Harry sees when he looks at him like that. He knows others’ versions of him have no bearing on who he is as a person, but he can’t help always feeling curious. What does Harry read into Louis’ messy, wild appearance? In his isolation? In his contentment?

“Well, yeah,” Harry finally agrees after a long while. “I suppose you would.”

They look at each other for what feels like too long, conversation halted awkwardly, but neither of them looking quite uncomfortable.

“What are you reading?” Harry finally asks just as Louis thinks one of them really needs to say something now. He slides a little closer to him on the bench, still a fair amount of distance between their bodies, and he stretches his neck to try and read over Louis’ shoulder.

Automatically, Louis tries to hide the book from view, a lifetime of little siblings annoying him when he’s trying to have quiet time taking over his body without his consent.

“Aren’t you supposed to be writing… whatever it is you write in that secret notebook of yours, right now?” he teases, looking down at said abandoned notebook and raising one eyebrow.

“It’s not secret,” Harry mumbles, suddenly looking away.

“You just don’t want me to know what it is,” Louis elaborates, “I know.” Quickly, to make sure Harry knows he’s not actually bothered about it, Louis adds: “Which is fine and allowed. Obviously. But I’m not going to distract you if you were gonna be productive, Mr Writer.”

As predicted, Harry chimes: “Not a writer!”

“Fine, fine, whatever it is, you’ve been trying really hard to do it all afternoon. I’m not letting you give up.”

“None of it is working today though,” Harry says, looking disgusted. With the writing or with himself, Louis can’t quite tell. “Everything is just… blurgh.” Harry says it with such vitriol, wrinkling his nose in distaste and grimacing dramatically.

It takes quite a lot for Louis not to laugh at his antics, but Harry looks sincerely upset, so he reigns the amusement in.

“I simply can’t focus today. I need a distraction. Please tell me about your book. I’m not above begging,” Harry says with a pout and Louis gulps as a flash of heat courses through his body.

It’s hard to forget, sometimes. Even in the midst of them becoming friends and with the constant reminder that Harry is one of Louis’ guests, and going through a difficult time at that, Louis can’t help the attraction. It’s a never-ending thought in the back of his head that he has to work hard to wipe from his memories.

“Please,” Harry insists and Louis blinks, looking away, feeling relieved that the darkness can hide the flush of his skin.

He clears his throat, passing a nervous hand through his hair. “It’s a… It’s about this family in the 60s. They all love each other, but they’re quite unhappy. And they’re going through a tough time, one of the kid’s died… It’s super depressing, actually.”

“Oh,” Harry says, scratching his left cheek and looking a bit puzzled.

“It is good, actually,” Louis replies, knowing he sounds confused about his verdict. “Not very cheery, but the characters are quite compelling. I mean, they’re pretty much all horrible to each other, but you’re still rooting for them? It’s weird. Well written though, I suppose.”

He ends his speech with a small laugh, more a nervous thing that slips out of him than anything else and when Harry says “can you read me a bit?” with a soft voice, Louis laughs again. At himself mostly this time, because he already knows it’s getting harder and harder to tell this man no.

It’s the way Harry makes his demand that gets to Louis, really. Simple, not even embarrassed.

“Of the book?” Louis asks, looking down at where it’s open on his lap.

“Would you mind?” Harry says, this time sounding a little sheepish.

Louis flounders at that. “I mean… No? Of course not.” He’s not sure why Harry is asking at all, but it’s not like he minds doing it. It’s a bit of an unusual request, for sure, but that’s alright. Louis can deal with unusual. Louis likes unusual. “I’ll start from the beginning though, that way you’ll be able to follow properly.”

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that,” Harry protests, eyes widening. “I don’t want it to be a bother, you can keep going wherever you are right now. I just want to get a sense of the vibe…”

“It’s no bother,” Louis says, folding the corner of his page. “It’ll just be confusing for you if I carry on. You won’t know who anyone is. You need to experience the thing properly.”

So Louis starts at the beginning, voice a little raspy, rhythm a little off, but eventually, he gets into in properly, starts doing the voices as he goes through the second chapter, then the third, the fourth. Soon enough, it’s way past their usual dinner time and Louis’ voice is quite hoarse, but Harry hasn’t moved in ages, eyes wide open as he listens to Louis telling him a story like this.

Finally, when Louis gets to a good stopping point, he clears his throat. “Maybe we should go get some food? It’s almost eight o’clock,” he says, voice cracking.

“Hmm?” Harry says, still looking a little dazed. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Sorry,” he exclaims, wincing a little. “I didn’t realise it had been this long… I swear I only meant for you to read me the opening paragraph.”

“Yeah me too,” Louis laughs. “But I quite like it. I can continue the book later,” he offers, before realising it might be a bit weird. “I mean… if you want.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, looking a bit uncertain. “Maybe. I mean, if you want.”

“I don’t mind,” Louis insists. “Might have to wait a bit though, I’m gonna need to rest my voice a little,” he jokes as they both get up to make their way downstairs, armed with their torches.

With most amenities out of commission with the power outage, Louis makes them a quick salad that they eat almost in silence, Harry pensive and Louis simply tired from reading for so long. They take care of the dishes quickly and once they’re done, Louis gets ready to take Clifford out on a walk.

“Interested?” he asks towards Harry as he puts his coat on and Harry nods, following along obediently.

Once they’re on the beach, Clifford starts sniffing around, leaving them behind as he runs off and enjoys himself. Harry’s doing the same, bending over every few minutes to grab some rocks and pebbles, observing them carefully in the darkness before throwing them back into the ocean.

“You sure your food is gonna be okay?” Harry asks at some point, eyes fixed on a piece of sea glass he’s found.

Louis can’t tell the colour in the dark like that and he flashes his torch in Harry’s direction to try and catch a glimpse.

Blue, he thinks. Then, he frowns. No, green.

“I’m pretty sure,” Louis says, still holding the torch towards Harry’s body.

His posture is terrible, all curled over himself as he looks at the treasure he’s found and Louis feels a wave of inexplicable fondness wash over him. He expects Harry to throw the sea glass back into the water as he’s been doing with everything else so far, but he rolls it between his fingers for ages before finally putting it into the pocket of his jacket.

“But like… how sure?” Harry asks, finally looking at him. “All of your food is in there. Shouldn’t you put some of it outside just in case?”

Louis snorts. “It’s not that cold outside,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the air around them, the _duh_ at the end of his sentence implied.

It’s not warm, for sure, but it’s not cold enough to keep Louis’ food cool. Especially not when he’s got a working generator taking care of it. Harry’s concern is cute though, Louis supposes.

“Colder than an unplugged fridge,” Harry argues, bending down to pet Clifford when he comes up to him happily.

“Except I’ve got a generator.”

“What if the power cut lasts for a few days?” Harry says. “Is your generator strong enough for that? I feel like maybe we should prepare for every eventuality.”

“Are you always this defeatist?”

“I’m not defeatist,” Harry replies, sounding a little offended.

Louis hums his doubts and when Harry gasps in indignation, he starts laughing.

“I’m realistic. I’m trying to prevent a catastrophe. I mean, it’s your stock and your money, you can do whatever you like,” he says, pouting and folding his arms across his chest.

“It is my stock,” Louis agrees, “and I bet you a fiver the power is going to be back in the morning.”

“A fiver?” Harry wrinkles his nose. “Doesn’t sound like you’re that convinced you’ll win.”

“Alright, I bet you deep cleaning all the toilets in the b&b, which is my big task for the week, that the power is going to be back on tomorrow. If I win, you have to help. If I don’t… you’re off the hook.”

Harry smirks. “I’m a guest, I’m off the hook anyway. You were gonna do them by yourself regardless.”

Louis sighs, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine then, what do you want to bet?”

“If you win, I help you with the toilets,” Harry offers, “but if the power isn’t back tomorrow, you have to finish reading me the book.”

Louis laughs. “I’m gonna do that anyway.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, and I’m gonna help you with cleaning anyway, what’s your point?”

Then, he grins and Louis can’t really say no, even if it is all a bit ridiculous and meaningless.

They shake on it like it’s a proper bet that has any meaning and once that’s properly sorted, they start making their way back to the lighthouse.

&

The next morning, Louis is fiddling with customer files on the computer, waiting for Harry to come back from his daily walk with Clifford, with a smug look on his face. Half past seven has come and gone and the power came back on, as usual, no weirdness, no delays.

It feels good to win even if he had the tactical advantage of living on Fair Isle for years now. Still, he’s a bit giddy as he tries to keep himself distracted until Harry comes back. He keeps glancing at the time on the computer, tapping his foot against his stool in a display of nervous energy.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the door creaks open and Harry and Clifford walk in.

“Oh, well, hello strangers!” Louis says in a posh accent, making big gestures to invite them. “Welcome to my beautiful inn, we possess all modern luxuries you might find yourself needing such as running water and _electricity,”_ he finishes pointedly.

Harry wiggles his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything, simply clenches his jaw as he starts unzipping his coat.

“No please, come forward,” Louis insists when Harry starts walking towards the living room, “let me demonstrate how well our electricity is working, don’t be shy. You can ask questions.”

Harry scoffs. “Alright, I get it. I panicked for nothing.”

“No, no, come,” Louis says, still in a posh voice, unwilling to break character.

Harry takes a few steps forward towards the reception desk before leaning on it with both forearms. Then, and only then, he gives Louis the biggest eye roll.

“You want to show me something?”

Louis grins, a little more delighted than is healthy as he struggles a little to shift his heavy computer monitor so Harry can catch a glimpse of the screen.

“Need help with that?” Harry asks. “Looks heavy?”

“I’m fine,” Louis grunts a little, letting out a small noise of victory when he manages to shift it so Harry has a good view. “Look at this, how wonderfully modern.”

Harry gives the computer a side-glance. “I wouldn’t call this ‘modern’, mate,” he says using two fingers to make air quotes.

“But it is, we have power and you have to wash the toilets with me,” Louis says, a hint too smug as he grabs the mouse to shift tabs on the computer, promptly making the screen go fully black.

Harry, with all the kindness and dignity in the world, bursts into laughter. “You were saying?”

“It’s an old computer!” Louis argues as the black screen fills with rebooting messages. “It does this all the time, it has nothing to do with the power.”

“Mmmhmm,” Harry says, unconvinced as he leans away from the counter. “Sure looks to be working great,” he adds, walking into the corridor. “I’m gonna go get breakfast, but you keep using your wonderful electricity Louis, it looks mighty fine.”

“You’re doing the toilets with me!” Louis calls at his retreating form before looking down at his antiquity. “Traitor,” he whispers to the machine.

&

A week later, Louis walks into the living room in search of a specific book that he thinks Harry would enjoy. They finished the family drama in only a few days, swiftly moving on to some short stories that they went through pretty quickly as well. Louis is pretty sure neither of them meant for it to become a _thing_ , but it most definitely has. It mostly happens in the evenings, after they’ve eaten and after they’ve walked Clifford together. They’ll go up to the lantern room armed with mugs of tea and Louis will read out loud. It’s surprising how soothing and wholesome of an experience it is, how much it’s made him feel closer to Harry. Louis had always considered reading a solitary activity and he’s astounded at how much he enjoys sharing this with a friend.

When he walks inside the living room/library, Louis is slightly confused to find Harry there. He thought for sure he’d disappeared in his room after lunch, in one of his morose moods since his morning phone call. But here he is, fast asleep on the sofa, on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, with Louis’ big stupid dog sprawled all over his legs and torso.

Louis stops in the doorway and sighs as he stares for a bit. It feels a bit creepy to do so, but he can’t help himself. There’s something peaceful about Harry in sleep, a lack of self-awareness, of calculated precision, that Louis can’t help but find fascinating. Whatever it is that Harry wants to hide from, it doesn’t taunt him in sleep. His face is smooth, lax as he breathes deeply, snoring a little. He’s still holding himself close like maybe he’s trying to make himself smaller still, but he doesn’t look agitated. Clifford is pretty much the same, head pillowed on Harry’s belly, living like a king, earning all the cuddles in the world. Louis knows the comfortable weight of him quite well, is familiar with the reassurance Clifford can bring without trying, the silent support… No wonder Harry looks so at ease.

Louis shifts his weight a little and the floor creaks, making Harry’s face twitch slightly. Louis swears under his breath and contemplates just leaving the room, pretending he was never there at all, but when Harry moves again, he makes the quick decision to walk in. Louis goes straight for one of the bookcases, leaning forward and tilting his head to read the titles, acting like he’s been doing so for a while now, unaware of Harry’s presence.

Louis is trying to read the same title for the third time, unable to focus, when Harry groans a little and he finally bites the bullet and turns around.

He’s greeted by a yawn and sleepy eyes, Harry’s hair tousled on top of his head.

“Hey,” Louis whispers when Harry waves half-heartedly at him. “I didn’t wake you up, right? I’m just looking for a book.”

Harry yawns again, reaching down to pet Cliff’s head. “No, it’s fine,” he says, voice hoarse. “Was I asleep long?”

Louis shrugs. “No idea, mate. I thought you were still upstairs.”

“I was for a bit,” Harry says, frowning. “I think I just got annoyed at myself and needed a change of decor.  Must have been really tired to fall asleep like that.”

“It’s the heavy dog effect,” Louis comments, pointing at Clifford. “The second he cuddles you, you’re done for. There’s a nap coming and you can’t stop it.”

Harry smiles and looks down at the still sleeping dog. “Yeah, I suppose that helps.” He clears his throat, then coughs, before speaking again. “What book are you looking for?”

“Just this novel,” Louis says unhelpfully, turning his attention back to the bookcase. “It’s a contemporary romance but it’s like… really funny. I think you’d like it and I could have fun doing the voices, but I can’t seem to find it.” Louis tuts before moving to the next bookcase. “Maybe someone’s swapped it.”

“You’re looking for a new book to read to me?” Harry says, sounding a little surprised.

Louis stops, one finger on the spine of a book. He turns around. “Unless you don’t want me to? It’s just… we’ve finished the short stories now, so.”

“No,” Harry says, trying to sit up without bothering Clifford. “No, I definitely want you to.” He pets along the side of Clifford’s body, trying to get him to settle down after he’s moved. “Hush, rest now. We’re not moving yet,” he whispers in a soothing voice.

“Cool!” Louis replies, focusing back on the books. Focusing all of his attention. Finally, after a couple more minutes of squinting, Louis exclaims “Ah-ha!” triumphantly and plucks out a book with a vibrant pink cover. “Found it,” he says, brandishing it for Harry to see.

“Hard to imagine you struggled to find that one considering,” Harry jokes, raising a perfect eyebrow.

Louis laughs. “Yeah, it’s hard to miss, isn’t it?”

“Just a little.”

Louis nods, flipping through the pages. “Anyway, we can start it tonight, if you want.”

“We can start it now?” Harry offers a bit shyly, looking all too adorable still cuddling with Louis’ dog. “Unless you have things to do today, obviously.”

“No, I… It’s fine. We can start now, for sure. I’ll just go and grab myself a glass of water and I’ll be right back.”

Once Louis is back with water both for Harry and himself, he settles on a big cushion on the floor, crossed legged, back pressed against the middle of the sofa. Harry is lying down again, petting Clifford who keeps nosing at Louis’ hair and the back of his neck with affection and curiosity.

Louis clears his throat, then opens the book.

&

It’s only ten days before Christmas that Louis realises he never actually got around to telling his mother that he isn’t coming to the family party this year.

Which, Louis is now realising as she babbles to him on the phone about plans for his birthday, is a bit of an oversight.

In Louis’ defence, they haven’t actually talked in ages.

Okay, so maybe it’s not that great of a defence, whatever. Louis isn’t perfect, he’s been busy!

Normally, the lighthouse is fully empty this time of year, but with Harry there, his whole routine is altered, empty evenings he’d normally spend phoning home filled with chats about anything and everything with Harry. He texts his mum, of course, asks how everyone is doing and keeps himself updated, but they haven’t had a proper chat on the phone in… longer than Louis is comfortable admitting.

“Yeah, hum… Mum, about that,” Louis finally interrupts her rant about the twins’ presents with sweaty palms. She’s not going to be pleased about this. “I’m sorry, I should have said before, but I can’t come this year. I’m gonna be working.”

It feels wrong calling Harry _work_ , but Louis isn’t quite sure how else he’s meant to explain it.

To Louis’ horror, Jay sounds genuinely shocked by this.

“What do you mean, you can’t come?” she asks him and he can hear it in her voice, the utter disappointment.

“Mum, I…” Louis clears his throat, starting to pace in the kitchen. “You know I have a guest right now, I can’t exactly close up the b&b and come over. I’m so sorry, I should have said earlier… I just… It completely slipped my mind.”

Jay sighs. “No,” she tells him softly, “it’s my fault. I should have known. I mean, you told me the guest was staying until March. I just didn’t think.”

“No, mum. No, it’s my fault. I was a twat not to call to tell you.”

“Well, I don’t approve of that language, but I don’t disagree,” she jokes and Louis laughs, relieved that she’s not actually furious at him. “I get it though, it’s not like you can really leave a stranger in your home by himself for a week.”

“What?” Louis exclaims. “No, it’s –.” He stops himself, not really sure how he’s supposed to explain that he doesn’t _want_ to leave Harry for the holidays, neither does he want to send him away. Not if he doesn’t want to go, not if he needs to be away from his family right now.

No one should spend Christmas by themselves.

Especially not Harry.

“Anyways, I should have said earlier. I was so busy, it completely slipped my mind.”

There’s a creak and when Louis turns around, Harry is slipping into the kitchen, giving him a little friendly wave before heading straight for the kettle.

Louis mouths a little ‘hey’ back at him, before focusing on his phone call again.

“I understand baby, it’s alright. I know the girls are gonna be disappointed, but they’ll understand too. As long as you ship their presents on time!”

Louis smirks as he watches Harry fill the kettle. “You know that’s already done,” he replies because he ordered his last gift only the day before and it’s being delivered straight to his mum’s doorstep on the twenty-third. “Also I resent the implication that Ernie isn’t going to be disappointed that I’m not there,” he teases and he laughs when his mum groans.

Calling his siblings “the girls” is a habit she still struggles to break herself out of, to Louis’ neverending amusement.

“You know what I meant!” Jay argues, clicking her tongue in annoyance at him.

“Yeah, that my little brother doesn’t love me.”

“How did I create such an annoying child, honestly,” she comments, mostly to herself.

Louis shrugs, even though she can’t see him. “Dunno, but you raised me so you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“I suppose I do,” she mumbles before speaking up again. “What are you going to do for your birthday?”

Louis hums. “Probably nothing,” he declares. It’s not like he particularly cares.

“You can’t do nothing, Louis. You need to celebrate. Gosh, I really need to get started on shipping all your presents to make sure they arrive on time and –”

“Mum,” Louis says, trying not to sound too exasperated. The last thing he wants is for her to worry about him and his gifts when she’s got such a big family to think about. She’s hosting, she’s always hosting, and his birthday should be the last thing on her mind. “You really don’t have to worry about that, okay. I know how busy you get at Christmas what with cooking for everyone and stuff. Please, it’s alright. Don’t think about me.”

There are a few tense seconds of silence between them on the line and Louis knows she’s annoyed at him.

“I don’t want you to spend your birthday alone without gifts,” she finally says after a bit. “I know you’re concerned about me having too much to do, but you’re my eldest and I’m going to be thinking about you and doing things for your birthday whether you like it or not.”

She says it all very matter-of-factly and, through his twenty-six years of life, Louis has learned there’s not much he can do when she’s being stubborn like that. They’re very alike though, so he won’t go down without fighting.

“Mum,” he sighs. “I’m not going to be alone, I have a guest remember,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards where Harry is unplugging the kettle now that it’s stopped whistling. In his enthusiasm to argue with her, he’s forgotten again that they’re not on Facetime. “Besides, I’m a grown man, I don’t have to do anything special for my birthday. Please don’t worry about it, just have a nice Christmas with the family and I’ll visit later. You can give me my gift then, it’s no trouble.”

“Well, I just think that –”

“Mum!” Louis insists. “Please, it’s fine. I’m not gonna die if I spend my birthday alone. And also, I’m not alone. I’m with Clifford and Harry.”

“I suppose,” his mum says, unconvinced.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” Louis says, unwilling to let the conversation carry on now that she’s almost accepted defeat, “but I’ll call you back soon, alright?”

She sighs loudly. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”

Louis smiles, then rolls his eyes. “I know. I’ll get cake at least, alright?”

“Good.”

“Listen,” he finally adds, “I’m sorry again about Christmas.”  

“It’s alright baby,” Jay says before wishing him a good day and hanging up the phone.

“Sorry about that,” Louis says awkwardly before putting the phone in the back pocket of his jeans. He looks at Harry and gives him a polite smile.

Harry frowns, then shakes his head as he hands Louis a steaming mug. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, grabbing the tea Harry made for him. He takes a sip, happy to find it made to perfection.

Harry turns around straight away to make his own and Louis can’t really see what he’s doing but he assumes he’s putting an unhealthy amount of sugar in his, the only difference between their milky cuppas. Once he’s done, Harry turns back to face Louis, smiling when he sees he hasn’t moved from his corner of the room. He leans on the counter, crossing one long leg over the other before looking down at his mug. He softly blows on it before speaking.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Harry says in a small voice. “I _am_ sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?” Louis asks with a confused laugh. “Making me perfect tea even when I didn’t ask you to?” he adds, lifting his mug a little towards Harry.

Louis’ smile drops slightly when it doesn’t make Harry laugh.

“You’re going to be stuck here for Christmas because of me.”

“Ah,” Louis says, raising his eyebrows. “That.”

“I really am sorry,” Harry says, looking up to Louis. “I…” he hesitates and a pensive, troubled, look shadows his face for a second. “You know, Cheshire really isn’t that far,” he declares, even though it kind of is. “It’s not that long of a trip to my mum’s. I could go there for the Holidays, if… if you’d like to spend some time with your family. I’d get it. I mean… I know I paid for the whole thing and whatnot but really… We should have discussed this a lot earlier. If you need time off, I won’t be upset.”

He speeds through the whole thing, says it all so casually, like he couldn’t be bothered, and Louis knows, straight away, that seeing his family this Christmas is the last thing Harry wants. The way he’s holding himself, too careful, too still, says it all. He’s almost silently begging Louis to tell him it’s no bother, that he doesn’t have to face any of them this year.

“Do you want to go home?” Louis asks.

“What?”

“The Holidays. Do you want to spend them with your family this year? Do you feel ready?” Louis insists. “Because you really don’t look thrilled at the thought. And I’m not going to send you off before you’re ready to go just to have a big meal with my family. I can do that anytime, you know?”

Harry gulps visibly, looking down at the floor again. If Louis were to guess, he’d say there’s relief in his eyes right now. Though of course, he can’t see them.

“What about your birthday?” Harry says. “Your mum said it was soon, no?”

“It’s on Christmas Eve and trust me when I say, it really doesn’t matter.”

Harry looks up at that, eyes wide. “But… Your birthday’s on Christmas?”

“Eve, yes. And again, as I told my mum only five minutes ago, I’m a grown man. I can deal without a birthday celebration.”

“I…”

“Honestly Harry, you don’t have to apologise. Or feel bad. If I didn’t want the b&b to be open for Christmas this year, I would have told you when you booked. I’m not bothered. I feel bad because I forgot to tell my mum in advance, sure, but I’m not gonna cry myself to sleep because I’m not with my family. It happens. I live far away. I own a business. Besides, spending time with you is hardly work, we’ll do something fun. Cook a big ass meal or something.”

“And a cake,” Harry comments. “For your birthday.”

Louis smirks. “I’m a terrible baker. Just so you know.”

“It’s alright, I worked in a bakery in a previous life.”

Louis laughs. “Did you?”

Harry shrugs. “I was a cashier actually, but you know… Surely some stuff rubbed off on me?”

Louis snorts. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”


	6. Chapter 6

On Christmas Eve, Louis allows himself a bit of a lie in, staying warmly cocooned in bed for an extra forty minutes before he finally gets up and dressed. When he gets to the cottage, he’s surprised to find Harry waiting for him by the front door with Clifford. He’s wearing comfy sweats and trainers, the dog’s leash already in his hand. It’s a lot earlier than his usual walk time, despite Louis’ lazy morning, and he can’t help but wonder what dragged him up so prematurely. 

Louis doesn’t have to wait very long for an answer because as soon as Harry sees him, his face brightens and he crosses the distance between them in two quick strides, reaching for Louis and wrapping him in a big hug.

“Happy birthday,” he says, voice warm and rumbling in Louis’ ears.

It’s a good hug, Louis thinks a bit distantly as he settles into it. Harry’s rubbing his back slowly, not letting go of him even when they’ve been at it far longer than a simple birthday wish requires. He's a soft presence against Louis' body and he closes his eyes, enjoying it for a second longer before he lets go, still blushing a little when he steps away.

With the exception of that one time Harry fell apart in his arms, the angle of their embrace all wrong, they're nerve really touched. Not like this. Not properly. 

Louis isn’t sure he wants to think about why he liked it so much.

“I was hoping you’d forgotten,” he admits in a mumble, chasing thoughts of Harry’s body solid and warm against his. “Please tell me you didn’t wake up early for me, I couldn’t bear it.”

Harry laughs. “Should I lie?” he asks with a small shrug.

Louis groans in response, tilting his head back. “All I wanted for Christmas this year is for people not to make a fuss. All I wanted.”

Harry is still laughing by the time Louis is done with his little speech.

“You don’t have some terrible surprise prepared for me, do you?” Louis asks, suspicious.

“I really don’t,” Harry replies. “Promise. But since it is Christmas Eve, my sponsor’s with family and everything, so I’m not calling today. I just thought maybe you’d like company on your run? Seems silly for both of us to go on a run, or a walk, a few hours apart. Especially on your birthday. Unless you want to be by yourself.”

“Just company, right? No surprise?” Louis takes the time to make sure, narrowing his eyes at Harry in a defiant way.  

Harry doesn’t seem particularly threatened by Louis’ intensity. In fact, he just laughs again. “I promise. I mean, what kind of surprise could I even orchestrate on this island? There’s like… nothing here. I’ll help you bake a cake and cook dinner if you want? But that’s about as far as surprises go.”

Louis nods. “Good.” Then, he smiles. “Alright then, let’s go!” he says, hitting Harry on the chest gently on his way out, starting to jog straight away.

It doesn’t take very long for Harry to catch up with him, both of them running at the same pace. There hasn’t been any snow this year, not yet, but the grass is still frosty this early in the morning, in a pale imitation of winter that doesn’t quite cut it. Still, Louis can’t remember the last time he’s had a white winter so it’s not like he’s feeling like he’s missing out much. Though there is something satisfying about the way the grass crunches beneath their feet as they jog their way along the cliffs. Usually, Louis listens to music in the morning and misses it entirely. Today though, in the darkness, he gets to enjoy every sound and feeling this morning has to offer; the waves below, Harry breathing beside him, Clifford’s paws hitting the ground, the frozen patch of earth beneath their feet.

It’s strange to think it’s Christmas already. It seems it was only yesterday that Louis first caught a glimpse of Harry in the distance, yet he’s integrated himself to the lighthouse seamlessly, the way no other guest has before. He’s been here for months now, months Louis normally spends completely alone, and yet, he still hasn’t found his presence irritating. It’s weird, but Louis certainly won’t question it.

Soon enough, they get to the beach and take a small break from running.

“Can I ask how old that makes you?” Harry asks, reaching inside the pocket of his jacket for a tennis ball and throwing it on the other side of the beach for Clifford to fetch.

Louis gasps, putting a dainty hand on his chest in mock offence. “How very dare you? It’s rude to ask a lady for her age!”

“A lady? Is that what you are?” Harry says sarcastically.

“Oi! I resent the implications.” Louis shakes his head before passing a hand through his unruly hair. It’s a losing battle, what with the wind, but he’s never going to stop fighting it. “I’m twenty-seven.”

“ I’m turning twenty-five in February,” Harry reveals.

“I knew you were younger than me,” Louis jokes. “You’ve got that glowing skin of a youngin’.”

“And acne, still!” Harry huffs, looking mortally offended. “Whoever said that disappears after your teens deserve to be shot.”

“Oh trust me, I know. Well, not personally,” Louis says with a wink, a bit cheeky, glad the darkness is most likely hiding it, “but my older sister’s way into make-up and skincare and she has issues. I’ve heard the rant.”

“It’s just really unfair,” Harry says, motioning over his shoulder like his flipping non-existent long hair. “We did our time,” he adds just as Clifford comes running back to him, wagging his tail and giving him the tennis ball. “You did such a good job,” Harry whispers to him, grabbing the ball and throwing it away again. “So…” he finally says, looking back at Louis. “How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Ugh,” Louis rolls his eyes. “I hate that question.”

Harry snorts. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m making conversation.”

“No, I know… It’s just… it feels exactly the same, doesn’t it? You’re just you still, it’s just one more day. I mean, you’re turning a quarter of a century in what… a month? Wait, when is your birthday exactly?”

“February first?” Harry offers, sounding a little confused by Louis’ rant.

“Right, so… in about a month! Quarter of a century! Supposedly a big one… But it’s all gonna feel the same as before.”

Harry smiles, a little sadly. “And here I was, expecting my whole life would magically change.”

“Harry…”

“I’m joking,” he says. “I mean, there’s a lot about my life I’ve changed and I’m still working towards changing. I’m not naive enough to think some silly milestone is just going to do that for me.” He looks pensive for a second, eyes fixed on the dark horizon. Then, he says: “how great would that be though. To suddenly reach an age and bam… you’ve got all the grown-up answers.”

“Well,” Louis says, nudging his arm gently, “I’m turning thirty relatively soon so fingers crossed, uh?”

Harry looks down, still carrying that sadness, that burden, that exertion, he always does. “Yeah.”

They stay on the beach for a lot longer than Louis usually does, ending up sitting down on the sand with Clifford sprawled between them, giving him belly rubs and smiling shyly at each other whenever their fingers bump into each other's on his skin. They talk about past birthdays and Christmases, an unspoken agreement to keep the memories happy and light passing between them. Harry makes Louis laugh so hard with tales of his twenty-first birthday and the wild LA party involved that he thinks he might throw up. At some point, Louis shares the story of when he decided to run away for his ninth birthday because his littlest siblings were being too loud for his sensitive ears and since he was the prince of Christmas, he didn’t have to tolerate it.

“My mum had to pick me up from the train station!” Louis reveals, laughing so hard he can hardly keep going.

“She did not!” Harry squeaks.

“I told her I was moving to the North Pole where they would respect my reign as the supreme leader of the holiday season!”

“That’s fucking adorable.”

“Well, of course, it’s me we’re talking about,” Louis jokes, deflects, trying to suppress the warmth pooling low in his belly.

They watch the sunrise in silence and Louis is almost moved to tears, not by the sight of the world awakening, but by Harry’s reverence to it. He looks at the sunrise with wide eyes, body fully still as he experiences it like a sacred moment. Like he feels lucky he’s here at all to witness it, like he’s thankful for the opportunity.

“It’s so beautiful,” Harry whispers, only breaking the silence when the sun has finished rising.

Louis never thought he’d meet anyone who gets this place the way he does.

&

Back at the lighthouse, they eat crepes for breakfast with a mountain of fruits and homemade whipped cream, Louis unable to stop laughing when Harry gets cream all over his face in his enthusiasm to eat tongue first. When they’re done, Harry insists on washing the dishes, giving Louis such a stern look that he doesn’t have it in him to argue. Instead of helping, Louis grabs his laptop from his bedroom and makes his way to the top of the lighthouse. There’s meal prep to go through if they want to eat a proper roast at some point for Christmas, but it’s his birthday and it’s late enough that most of his siblings must be awake by now. He doesn’t want to be fussed over, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to see his family.

Almost all of his family are squished together to fit on the screen when Louis skypes them and the knowledge that they were probably just waiting next to their mum’s laptop for him to get online almost brings tears to his eyes. It’s a chaotic call, all Skype calls in his family are, the girls shouting over each other to be heard, but Louis loves every second of it. They sing happy birthday to him, telling him all about their holiday plans, and soon enough they’ve calmed down a little, all of them chatting in turns about what’s going on in their lives at the moment.

By the time Harry joins him on top of the lighthouse with two massive mugs, Daisy is telling a story about one of her exams.

“Oh,” Harry whispers, looking caught and uncomfortable.

He steps backwards, towards the stairs, and Louis widens his eyes. “Careful!” he says, suddenly scared he’s going to fall and the laptop becomes completely silent.

“Louis?” his mum calls from the speaker.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says, looking back at the screen. “Sorry, Harry just came in and I thought he was gonna fall down the stairs for a second there. He’s a bit clumsy.” He says the last part fondly, looking up from the laptop at Harry with a smile.

It falls as soon as he catches a glimpse of Harry’s face. He’s holding his shoulders up like he’s trying to hide and doesn’t know where to go, eyes wide with a deer caught in headlights look on his face.

“Oh!” Jay exclaims, completely unaware of the discomfort in the room. “Is that your guest? Can we say hi? Wish him a Happy Christmas?”

Harry, as impossible as it might seem, looks even more uncomfortable at the suggestion. He gulps, colour completely draining from his face. Then, he gives Louis a panicked look and shakes his head.

Louis frowns but doesn’t question it. Instead, he smiles down at his mum.

“He’s a bit shy actually and we kind of had plans to watch a movie, so I’ll call you later, alright?”

“Oh, of course, darling, we’ll let you enjoy your birthday now.”

They say goodbye, lots of voices joining in to wish him a happy birthday one last time before Louis turns Skype off.

“You didn’t have to hang up because of me,” Harry says, remaining frozen in place.

“I didn’t. Conversation died down.” Louis doesn’t know why he lies like this, but he can’t help the thrumming beneath his skin, the overwhelming desire to protect Harry’s feelings.

“I’m sorry, I… I just…” Harry swallows hard, eyes blinking fast like maybe he’s going to cry. His breathing is a bit too fast for comfort and for a second, Louis thinks this might be the beginning of a panic attack. “It’s just that I… I can’t…”

“Harry,” Louis says softly, getting up from the bench. He walks towards the lost boy in the middle of the room, palms offered in surrender so Harry knows they’re coming when Louis places them gently on his shoulders. “You don’t have to explain. They’re strangers. You don’t have to say hi to them if that’s difficult for you.”

Harry nods. “Thanks,” he whispers and Louis wonders if maybe he’s agoraphobic or something like that. If it’s anxiety about _people_ that drove him to drinking; if it’s hard to cope without it now.

For what feels like the thousandth times, Louis reminds himself it’s none of his business.

Harry sniffs. “I made you hot chocolate,” he says after a beat, holding the mugs up. “For your birthday.”

Louis squeezes Harry’s shoulders once, then lets go of him. “Thank you, Harry. That’s very kind.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not. Thank you,” Louis insists, grabbing one of the mugs and giving the hot chocolate a sniff. “Looks delicious.”

“Alright,” Harry says awkwardly. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

“To what?”

Harry blinks. “Call your family back?”

“Oh no, I’m not gonna do that now. I love them, but they’re a lot. I was gonna watch a movie, wanna join?” Louis tilts his head towards the bench.

Harry purses his lips for a second. Then, he asks: “what movie?”

“Well, since it’s Christmas, I usually watch Love Actually. Which is very soft and cheesy of me, but you’re not allowed to laugh!”

Harry doesn’t laugh. Instead, he smiles widely, dimples fully out. “I love Love Actually. It’s one of my favourite movies.”

“Perfect,” Louis says, walking back to the bench, putting his hot chocolate on the chest next to his laptop and grabbing a blanket bunched up on the side. “Go on then,” he encourages when he notices Harry hasn’t moved yet, fluffing the blanket and tilting his head towards the bench.

Harry obediently moves across the room, sitting down in the middle of the bench, right in front of the laptop. Then, he takes a small sip of his hot chocolate. Louis waits until he’s done, silently telling him to put his mug aside with his eyebrows before throwing the blanket over Harry’s lap, making sure he’s entirely covered. Then, he slides in next to him under the wool throw and reaches for the laptop.

At some point during the film, Harry finally relaxes and Louis feels it where their bodies are touching, the way he slackens bit by bit until he’s fully comfortable. When Emma Thompson opens her Christmas present, Harry starts crying a little, turning to hide his face in Louis’ shoulder. Louis stiffens at first, heart skipping a beat, a tad confused at what’s happening, but he adapts quickly, wrapping an arm around Harry’s body and rubbing his back comfortingly. It’s only when the movie ends that they fully untangle themselves from each other.

They spend the afternoon baking a cake together that Harry insists has to be pink, laughing in the kitchen as they listen to Christmas music, making a proper mess of the whole place. Harry accidentally spills some flour all over Clifford, transforming Louis’ dog in a little winter elf, his dark fur now white. Harry looks at least contrite and he’s the one who spends forty minutes washing Clifford with a bucket outside while the cake is in the oven.

With the mess they’ve made in the kitchen, they decide to focus on cleaning up instead of creating more chaos, agreeing to make their proper roast on Christmas Day even though Louis initially wanted it for his birthday. It’s more traditional this way though, and they eat a very simple meal instead to celebrate Louis’ existence, leaving them with plenty of room to eat almost an entire cake together.

They sit outside the lantern room in the cold of the night, freezing their bums off where they’re crossed legged on the gallery, bundled up in big jumpers and coats. Louis licks some pink frosting off his fork, feeling like he might be vaguely sick after three slices of cake and feeling rather delighted that he actually feels this way. It’s reminiscent of Christmas Eve when he was just a child, devouring anything sweet he could get his hands on with the excuse that it was his one and only day and no one would dare to stop him.

“So, bakery work really did rub off on you,” Louis teases once he’s done, rubbing his belly through layers of clothing.

“Not bad, right? We did a good job,” Harry says with a big smile, a blob of pink icing stuck in his dimple.

Louis laughs at the sight and Harry frowns, looking confused.

“What is it?”

“You have…” Louis points at it before shaking his head, reaching for Harry’s face gently and wiping the frosting away.

“Oh,” Harry says when Louis rubs it away in his plate. “Well, it’s not a proper celebration without a bit of a mess.”

“Oh, I think we got that covered when your clumsy arse decided to dye my dog.”

“He was in the way!” Harry argues, shoulders straightening as he starts gesticulating. “He.. he cut me off!” he explains, illustrating his point with one sweeping movement. “It was entirely his fault. He’s very disruptive.”

Louis bites his lower lip, forcing himself not to laugh. “Mmmhmmm.”

“Your back was turned, you didn’t see it. You don’t know what happened. I’m telling you, it was his fault.”

“How very easy to blame the creature who can’t argue back,” Louis jokes, settling a little more comfortably against the tower, tilting his head up to look at the stars.

Fuck, the sky is gorgeous here, Louis thinks.

To his surprise, Harry doesn’t argue back again and when Louis chances a glance his way, not even bothering to turn his head, Harry is staring at him silently.

Louis looks away, looks back at the stars and waits. Finally, after a few seconds, he glances Harry’s way again. “What?” he finally says.

“You know what else is necessary for a birthday celebration?” Harry asks matter-of-factly. “A gift.”

“Nope,” Louis protests automatically. He didn’t even get Harry a Christmas present, there’s no way he’s accepting a birthday gift.

“So, obviously I knew about this very last minute and we are… rather limited here so I struggled a lot… thinking about what I could give you.”

“Easy,” Louis singsongs. “Nothing!” He raises his eyebrows on the word, a bit cheeky, a bit flirty.

“Close,” Harry says, playing along with the same manic energy, “but not quite.”

He reaches inside his back pocket, wiggling around a little to fit his hand into it without having to get up, and Louis watches him making a complete fool of himself with amusement.

“Ah!” Harry finally says triumphantly, raising his closed fist above his head.

Despite not wanting anything, Louis can’t help but growing curiosity taking over his mind. Especially when Harry turns around to face him, suddenly looking really shy.

“So, obviously, I couldn’t really buy you anything and get it shipped in time, but I thought… I picked this up the other day just because… And, well. I thought you might like it.” Harry opens his hand and inside it is a piece of sea glass, dark blue or green or both, the one he picked up a while ago, or an older one, Louis can’t tell. “It’s really… silly, actually, but you know…” Harry shrugs. “You love Fair Isle a lot and this… I picked it up because it reminded me of you,” he admits with honest eyes, wide and as green as the sea glass and how could it remind Harry of Louis when looking into it is like looking into Harry’s gaze.

“I…”

“It reminded me of the colour of the sea here… ” Harry explains, looking down and putting the stone into Louis’ hand. “It reminded me of…” he stops himself, looking back up, straight into Louis’ eyes. “I picked it up because I thought I’d need a reminder of what it’s like here when I have to go back to my normal life.”

His voice cracks on the word ‘normal’.

“You should keep it then,” Louis says softly, trying to hand it back, but Harry moves away, shaking his head.

“It’s a gift.”

Louis isn’t sure he fully understands the gesture, but he nods anyway, closing his hand into a fist, keeping it safe. “Thank you.”

&

The week between Christmas and New Years Eve passes both quickly and slowly at the same time. They barely leave the lighthouse as the temperature drops and drops, a true winter chill taking over the world. In the mornings, they argue over who is going to walk Clifford and they spend most of their afternoons wrapped in blankets in the tower, Louis reading and Harry writing. And of course, sometimes, Louis reading out loud for them both.

There’s a new frantic energy to Harry when he jots things down, like maybe something Louis could never understand has unlocked in him and he’s in a hurry. He’s gotten back to melancholia too, has lost whatever holiday cheer he had, various shadows and ghosts passing on his face as he scribbles and scribbles. Louis puts his book down sometimes and just stares, looks at him working and wonders. He wonders how long he can get away with watching Harry without getting caught. He wonders what sorts of demons he might be exorcising without Louis knowing. He wonders if one day he'll be lucky enough – trusted enough – to know. Sometimes, Harry hums under his breath and it isn’t until the night of December twenty-nine that Louis starts thinking anything of it.

Louis is still cleaning up the kitchen by himself, lost in thoughts, when suddenly, out of nowhere, he hears soft music coming from the dining room. He pauses, dishrag in hand hovering over the counter, as he takes in the sad ballad. He doesn’t know the song, but it feels so achingly familiar at first that he assumes Harry’s put some music on after dinner. He spends a few seconds trying to piece where he’s heard it before, gulping at the slow melancholy of the melody, when – suddenly – a voice. Deep. And raw. And soothing. A voice he’s come to know so intimately over the past few months that he almost can’t believe it at first. Yet somehow, it’s like a missing piece of the puzzle suddenly slotting into place. Harry’s singing, whispering the words really, with such intensity that Louis drops the dishrag and takes a step back, physically shocked by what he’s hearing.

He can’t believe he didn’t know Harry could do this. He can’t believe he didn’t know Harry could do this with such warmth and emotion, all the loneliness of the world suddenly put into song like maybe it can be made sense of. And Louis just knows, in one instant, without being able to explain it to himself, that the only reason the song feels familiar is that Harry wrote it. That it’s new and precious.

Louis tiptoes from the kitchen to the corridor, going all the way up to the door, but not managing to gather the courage to walk in, not wanting to disturb, not wanting to interrupt. The moment feels so personal, so tender, as Harry says it all, leaving no stone unturned. He probably has no right to witness it, no right to eavesdrop, but he can’t walk away. Louis feels stuck in place, unable to breathe or move, and if he has to deeply take root somewhere, to tangle himself to a place and a moment with no chance of escape, then he’s happy it’s here, in his favourite place on Earth, listening to the beautiful soul of a man he cares about.

So Louis closes his eyes, pressed against the doorway, listening to Harry’s song, stomach in knots at the pain, at the beauty, even though he knows Harry at least has a healthy way to express everything he needs to.

The music stops, song fading into silence and Louis rubs under his eyes, the tip of his fingers wet with tears just as the lights turn off, plunging them into darkness.  

Half past eleven. Just like every other night, they go back in time, modern comforts forgotten until morning.

In the dark, Harry’s voice seems even deeper than usual.

“You can come in, you know,” he declares, a bit shaky, but not embarrassed. “I know you were listening.” He sounds caught, but a bit defiant, like Louis would ever say something negative about such a beautiful expression of Harry’s soul.

Louis doesn’t hesitate for a second before walking in, closing the door behind him, making his way to the piano as his eyes adjust to the darkness, avoiding the inky shapes of tables and chairs until he reaches where Harry sits in front of the piano.

“You wrote this song,” Louis says, still a few steps away. It’s not a question.

Harry nods. Louis can barely see him in the dark, but it feels like he doesn’t need to, feels like a moment transcending their physical bodies, like maybe they’re meeting for the first time, heart to heart, soul to soul. Even without light, even without being able to see his face, Louis can tell his nod is a bit shy.

“It’s what I do,” Harry confesses, playing a few notes from a song Louis knows is on a couple of playlists Lottie made for him. “Songwriting,” he adds unnecessarily. “Performing.” He pauses. Voice trembling a little, he adds: “selling myself.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, waiting in case there’s more Harry needs to say tonight.

“My name isn’t Harry Twist,” he admits, breath catching, as Louis’ heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

“I suspected,” Louis admits – reassures – hoping Harry isn’t about to beat himself up about it. “You didn’t seem to wear it very comfortably that first day,” he teases.

Harry huffs, half a laugh, half a sigh, and at least he doesn’t sound like he’s going to start crying anymore.

“It’s my stepdad’s last name,” he confesses. “I used to use it to go incognito in hotels and stuff but then my fanbase started knowing every single thing about me and I couldn’t anymore. Had to start getting even more ridiculously false name and complicated decoys to avoid a mob.”

It’s a lot more than Louis expected. A lot more than he could have imagined. Yet, somehow, it makes all the sense in the world. Of course, this is who Harry is. Harry who, even on the darkest of days, when his spirit is subdued, shines like a beacon in the night, like the lighthouse they live in, attracting fans like moths. Of course, the whole world saw and wanted a piece.

“I probably shouldn’t have lied at all when I came here,” Harry continues, sounding frustrated. “I mean, you obviously didn’t recognise me so I don’t know what pushed me to –” He shakes his head. “I guess I was afraid. I needed to be away for a long time. I _wanted_ to be away for a long time. And historically speaking, people who know my real name haven’t always used it with the best of intentions. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about it when we became friends though.”

Louis sighs, taking one step forward, hand reaching for the back of Harry’s neck before he stops himself. “I’m the one who’s sorry. That sounds really stressful to deal with.”

At that, Harry laughs. Ugly. Bitter. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches between them, one Louis isn’t willing to break.

“My real last name is –”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Louis interrupts, needing Harry to understand how inconsequential this all is for him.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks and now that his eyes are fully adjusted, he can see the way Harry’s back muscles are tensed. “I’m really famous. How are you going to google my net worth or all the pap walks I did when I was completely shitfaced if you don’t know my last name.”

He says it all with so much anger, spews it all out like bullets, and Louis knows none of it is aimed at him, but every single word still hits and he has to tighten his hands into fists to stop himself from expressing outrage at Harry’s expectations. At the way he’s clearly been hurt.

“I don’t want to google you,” Louis says through gritted teeth. “I know everything that I need to know about you, Harry. And that’s what _you_ told me.”

“You know more than most,” Harry replies in a small voice. Vulnerable.

“And I know how lucky that makes me. I wouldn’t jeopardize that.” Louis waits for a second, heart in his throat, before opening his mouth again. He wishes he didn’t have to say it, but he feels like he should. “You know you’re safe here, right?” Louis closes his eyes at the hesitation in his voice. He needs Harry to trust him. He needs Harry to know Louis would never… would never sacrifice him for his own gain. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

At that, Harry turns around slightly, one leg on each side of the long rectangle bench, hands pressed against the wood, head tilted towards Louis.

“Of course,” he replies, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t think so.”

Louis nods, relieved. “Good,” he says, more emotional than he expected. “Good.” He tilts his head down, hiding his face despite the darkness before joining Harry on the bench, mirroring his position. “I’m listening.”

Harry gulps. Their eyes meet.

“I don’t… After everything that happened, I didn’t know if I could do it anymore. I came here feeling so... overwhelmed. I was sober for the first time in a long time and that was scary. Trying to find out if I had anything left to say that mattered enough for me to put myself back out there, back into triggering situations, with triggering people.”

There’s a hint of panic in Harry’s voice, but he inhales deeply.

“But I really think I do,” he admits. “Ever since getting out of rehab, ever since being here, I haven’t stopped writing. It’s like… it’s like… It’s like I’m me again and I have so much I want to say.”

“You _think?_ ” Louis teases, thinking back to the hauntingly beautiful song. “Harry… that song…” Louis shakes his head, tentatively reaching for Harry’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around it and squeezing. “It’s so beautiful.”

Harry closes his eyes, face peaceful as he seems to savour the compliment. Then, his expression crumbles.

“I think it’s too sad,” he confesses.

Louis frowns, not understanding. “What does that matter? If that’s how you feel. It’s not too sad, Harry. It’s a part of you and if that’s what’s inside you that needs to be said then I’d say it’s just fucking sad enough, yeah?”

Harry laughs, reaching up to wipe away tears Louis hadn’t even noticed falling.

“I mean for my label… For my fanbase. It’s not exactly my brand. They worked so hard to keep my… fuck ups out of the media and I’m gonna what? Make an album about it? They’re never gonna let me.”

Louis sighs. “Does it matter? What the label thinks?” He lets his thumb rub against the skin of Harry’s inner wrist.

Harry shrugs. “I’m under contract so it really should. But I’m not sure anymore.”

Louis sighs, deep and devastated, wishing he had anything of substance to say, any useful advice, but this is beyond him, it’s beyond the world he knows. So he just shrugs a bit helplessly, leaning forward as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest, pressing a small kiss - feather soft - against Harry’s temple, whispering the words into his skin. “Then I say don’t worry about it for now, yeah? You don’t have to know.”

And it’s sad, it’s heartbreaking, but with the way Harry’s shoulders slump forward and shake, the way he leans into Louis, burying his head in his neck, a sob caught in his chest, Louis thinks maybe no one told him it was okay not to know, to take his time, to think things through, in a really long time. Maybe ever.

Something like fury swirls deep within Louis' chest and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, holding him close as the weight of so many people’s expectations pours out of him in grief.

&

They spend the last couple of days of the year tiptoeing around each other.

Or rather, Harry tiptoes around the lighthouse, a bit skittish now that he’s shed his skin. There’s a mixture of relief and worry threaded into everything he does and all Louis wants is to prove he’s worthy of the trust that’s been placed in him. So he doesn’t really mention the fame thing, doesn’t ask the hundreds of questions burning the tip of his tongue. Instead, he doesn’t say a single thing, keeps quiet and lets Harry lead, follows along as they keep to their routine and talk about anything but Harry’s revelation.

It’s blowing Louis’ mind a little though. Not in a way that changes how he perceives Harry, of course not, but in the way it makes everything else click together like puzzle pieces. Like how Harry seems to resent his normal life and fears returning to it. Click. Like how much money he seems to have, all the travelling he’s mentioned. Click. Like the way he panicked at the thought of a gaggle of young teens saying hi to him on Skype. Click.

Louis can’t help but feel like, even though he could probably never fully understand, he’s got a better idea now, of what is weighing Harry down.

On New Year’s Eve, they eat in the dining room for once, heating up the leftovers from their Christmas dinner and even Clifford gets some scraps. It’s the last night of the year, after all, Louis figures, might as well. Once they’re done eating and cleaning up, Louis suggests moving up to the lighthouse tower, as they usually do, but Harry gives him a contemplative look before suggesting they have a party.

“A party?” Louis says with a laugh, looking at the empty kitchen around them. “What kind of party are you expecting?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s New Year’s Eve, we have to dance a little. Don’t you think?”

And dance they do. They go back to the dining room, pushing tables and chairs out of the way to create some space in the middle of the room. It’s a bit ridiculous that they’re going through so much trouble just to dance the year off, but once the idea has planted in his mind, Louis can’t help but find it appealing. He hasn’t been dancing in months, maybe even a year, and he’s quite excited about the whole thing. He dims most of the lights while Harry selects a playlist, or makes a new one most likely, and soon enough they’re off, letting loose like no one is watching.

Neither of them is a particularly good dancer, it turns out. Harry is half dorky dad dance moves, half stripper while Louis focuses on a select few funny moves he’s been perfecting over the years. At some point, as the evening progresses, they start simply flailing and jumping around in each other’s vicinity, both of them sweaty and laughing.

At half past eleven, the lights turn off.

At a quarter to, Harry changes the music to a slow playlist and they start swaying together, having a half-whispered conversation before the year begins.

“Any resolutions?” Louis asks at five minutes before midnight.

Harry’s hands are somewhere on his back and the way he’s specifically not touching Louis’ waist would feel very platonic except his touch burns through Louis’ clothes where he keeps rubbing up and down his spine.

“Don’t fuck up your sobriety,” Harry says with a scoff and Louis really should have guessed that one.

“Anything else?”

He’s not sure why he’s insisting, but somehow he needs to know. Harry’s face is obscured, merely a shape in the dark, and Louis can’t tell what’s passing through his eyes the way he normally can. It’s a surprisingly upsetting realisation.

“To be… braver, I think,” Harry finally admits in a small voice.

“But you’re already so brave,” Louis says, taking a tiny step closer, whispering it against Harry’s jaw.

“I don’t always feel it, but thanks. I still think I could be braver still.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to wish you then,” Louis says, voice a bit hoarse, raspy. “A lot of bravery for your new life, for your new album, for your new… everything.”

“What about you?” Harry asks him and Louis doesn’t know, doesn’t really subscribe to this idea of renewing oneself because the calendar said so, not when he’s so proud of where and who he is.

“Control,” Louis says seriously, then he smiles. “‘Cause I’m thinking about decreasing my sweets intake and that’s gonna be rough.”

Harry laughs, right on schedule. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a tough one. Tougher than mine.”

“I’m not that bad,” Louis says even though he woke up with two caramel wafer wrappers underneath his pillows a few days ago. “Seriously though, I just… want to keep being me, want to keep living here and keep meeting… the incredible people who pass through, whether they stay a day or… months.”

Louis feels it when Harry takes a step forward as he spins them around, their bodies flushed together.

“It’s inspiring, you know?” Harry says, almost conversationally. “The way you’re so settled. Makes me think it’s possible to feel that way, that… that this agitation of mine isn’t forever.”

Louis hums, then looks up at Harry’s face, what he can see of it in the starlight. “Troubled seas never are,” he says sincerely. He should know, he watches it change and move every single day, observes its most disturbed moments and the way it always smoothes eventually.

They’re looking at each other silently when the alarm on Louis’ phone beeps, taking them both out of the moment.

“Midnight,” Harry whispers against his face.

Louis doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss someone so desperately in his entire life. He leans in, inhales shakily, with nerves, anticipation, then tilts his head away.

Harry trusts him. In a world where everyone expects something from him, he trusts _Louis_.

And Louis… Louis never wants to be one of those people who take from him, who want, and ask, and demand, never wants to lose that trust he doesn’t feel he’s earned. He’s not going to be a vulture. He refuses.

So, he tilts his head away.

“Happy New Year Harry,” he says, clenching his jaw.

“Happy New Year Louis,” Harry replies before wrapping him into a fierce hug.

This is fine too, Louis thinks, burrowing his head in Harry’s shoulder. It’s probably better.

&

Harry’s guitar arrives in the middle of the second week of January.

He never mentioned he was expecting it, but one morning, Louis is busy repainting a bed frame upstairs when he hears the front door creak open and loud, heavy footsteps walking in. He frowns, a little confused. He’s pretty sure Harry is still writing in the tower. He’s been hiding up there since coming back from his daily walk with Cliffy, Louis would have definitely heard him leave. Besides, Harry is a lot quieter, moves around the world in murmurs, like a ghost. He’s trying to escape the inquisitive glances of strangers, Louis has now come to understand. There’s no way that heavy-footed stranger is him.

Louis’ suspicions are confirmed when a loud Scottish voice says “Knock knock!” while banging on something – the reception desk? Louis guesses. He smiles when he recognises the voice though, should have known as soon as he heard someone walking in, and he puts his paintbrush aside before getting up and stretching his back a little.

“I’m up here MacLean!” Louis calls, exiting the room and walking towards the stairs. “Just coming down now!” he adds, probably unnecessarily.

The first thing he sees when he’s back on the ground floor is the postman leaning against the reception desk casually, broad-shouldered as ever and towering in the entryway. He’s got his faithful red Royal Mail bag on one shoulder and is holding a beige guitar case in his hands.

“Delivery for your guest,” MacLean says when he catches Louis’ eyes.

A man in his early forties, MacLean and his wife moved to Fair Isle long before Louis ever first set foot on it, thinking it would be the dream lifestyle for them. They fell in love with the island almost as fast as they fell out of love with each other and they adored the place so much neither of them wanted to move away in the separation process. Which apparently led to some awkward first months of divorce, if the rest of the village is to be trusted. But now they live apart and are quite good friends. Louis doesn’t know a lot of people who would be comfortable living in the same tiny community as their ex and he’s always admired MacLean for his easygoing attitude towards it all.

MacLean puts the guitar on the floor and reaches into his bag, fiddling with the contents until he finds the paperwork he needs and puts it on the counter.

“That’s great,” Louis says, taking a few steps forward, leaning down to grab the guitar case.

MacLean tuts at him disapprovingly and Louis freezes, fingers a few inches from the guitar.

“What?”

“Need a signature, don’t I?” the postie replies, shaking his head. “A…” he looks down on the paperwork, “Mr Twist?”

“I can sign for it,” Louis says, getting back up and reaching for the papers.

MacLean hisses and swats Louis’ hand away like he’s a fly. He shakes his head. “Sorry pal, can’t do that.”

“Since when are you such a stickler for rules?” Louis laughs, putting one hand on his hip.

“Since someone paid a lot of money for this to be delivered securely.”

Louis gasps. “So what, you don’t trust me?” he asks, punching MacLean in the shoulder jokingly, without real force behind the gesture.  

“Don’t be such a bother Tomlinson and go get your guest so I can get back to my sheep. Mail delivery isn’t my only job, you know, and this is my last package of the day.”

“I did know that actually, I’ve lived here a long time,” Louis replies, just to wind him up.

MacLean isn’t someone Louis would necessarily call a close friend, but they get on.

The postman sighs, shaking his head again. He’s been doing that a lot. “Do I need to go hunt for Mr Twist myself?”

“If you let me sign for it…” Louis starts before laughing loudly. “He’s in the tower,” he finally says seriously. “I’ll go and get him.”

When Louis walks up the stairs and into the lantern room, Harry’s notebook is open on the chest and he’s fiddling with the recording app on Louis’ phone.

“So that’s where my mobile is,” Louis comments instead of saying hello.

Harry doesn’t bother to look up. “You forgot it up here earlier and I had an idea for a melody,” he says, switching apps. “I’m just emailing it to my manager. He doesn’t write songs obviously, but it’ll give him an idea of what I’m working on. Thanks for letting me use it.”

“Actually, you’re using it without permission,” Louis reminds him, though it’s not like he needed it this morning, or like he actually minds.

“You don’t mind,” Harry says flippantly.

“Was giving him my phone password a mistake?” Louis asks to an invisible audience, looking up dramatically and sighing.  

“I don’t think so!” Harry pipes up and when Louis looks back at him, he’s finally looked away from the phone and is grinning.

“Yeah, well you’re not exactly an unbiased party, are you?” Louis says, taking a step forward and poking Harry in the cheek. “There’s a delivery for you downstairs by the way. Postie won’t let me sign for it, so you’ll have to come down.”

Harry’s eyes widen and start sparkling. He clearly knows what’s waiting for him.

“A delivery?”

“Yes,” Louis says, stretching the s sound, “and you seem to know exactly what it is, so don’t keep him waiting.”

At that, Harry drops the phone and scrambles to get up, almost falling down in his attempt, steadying himself on Louis’ shoulder to prevent it.

“Alright?” Louis asks, reaching carefully for Harry’s waist to help him stay upright.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry agrees and suddenly he’s gone, running down the stairs.

By the time Louis has made it back to reception, MacLean is already leaving and Harry is looking at his guitar case with a look of wonder on his face, partly childish, but mostly devoted.

It takes him a few seconds to even realise that Louis is there. When he does, he looks away from the case and gives Louis a soft smile.

“I called my manager a while back, asked him to send me this. I figured… If I’m getting back into, might as well do it properly, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees. It’s a bit weird to think about, Harry leaving. Harry going back to this faraway universe of celebrities and screaming fans. Even though it’s clearly where he belongs. “Would you play it for me?” he can’t stop himself from asking.

“Play what?” Harry asks.

“The melody,” Louis says. “The one from before.”

“Oh,” Harry blushes. “It’s… it’s nothing. Yet. It’s just… noise. I woke up with it stuck in my head, haven’t been able to shake it.”

“But it’ll be something someday?”

Harry shrugs. “Hopefully?”

“Then you should play it for me. So I can tell how much it’s evolved once it’s finished.”

Harry laughs. “Why would you want to be able to tell that?”

“Dunno,” Louis replies honestly. He takes a step forward, grabbing Harry’s elbow and leading him towards the living room. “S’just a way to get to know you better, I guess.”

After that, Harry very kindly obliges him.

&

“It’s Styles by the way,” Harry says randomly on a Monday night, while they’re eating homemade fish and chips.

“Pardon?” Louis replies, mouth half full. He swallows, then chuckles. “Sorry,” he says, grabbing a napkin to wipe the grease off his fingers.

“My last name,” Harry explains, popping a chip into his mouth.

Louis blinks at him, wearing his best unimpressed look. “Pardon?” he says again.

Harry smirks. “You heard me.”

“So… Harry Styles,” Louis tries it on, nodding a little. “Is that like… a stage name or?”

It sounds a bit too perfect, a bit too gimmicky to be real, as far as Louis is concerned.

“Nope,” Harry insists, grabbing another chip. “S’my dad’s last name.”

“Your dad’s last name isn’t Styles,” Louis says confidently. There’s no way there’s a man out there who was born with a name like Harry Styles. That’s so ridiculous. If Louis was asked to create a pop star name for Harry right here and now, he wouldn’t even suggest that because of how outlandish it sounds.

“Oh, but it is,” Harry insists. “You can google it.”

The comment throws Louis off a little and he sighs, torn up between annoyed and surprised.

“What is it with your obsession over me googling you?” he asks, unable to resist. “That’s twice you’ve mentioned it now.” He pauses, as an idea quickly forms in his brain. “Are you testing me?”

“What?” Harry says, looking more startled than caught, though Louis wouldn’t dismiss his theory yet. “No. I mean… Not on purpose. I just…” Harry shrugs, looking a little helpless. “I don’t know, I know you said it didn’t matter to you, but it felt weird for you to not actually know my name, alright? I just wanted to tell you. I wouldn't have offered for you to google it if you’d just believed me when I said it’s Styles, to be honest.”

A long pause settles between them, stretches and stretches, until Louis decides to speak again.

“Fair enough. I still think it’s absolutely ridiculous that you’re actually named Harry Styles. Were your parents planning on you becoming famous or what?”

Harry laughs. “No. Really not. They’ve always supported my singing, and my mum was the one who first signed me up for the X-Factor, but it wasn’t like they were planning for it or anything. They’re not that kind of pushy parents.”

It’s the first time Harry’s given him any hints as to how and why he became famous so young and Louis wants to press in and dig a little deeper, wants more information and feels a bit dizzy with it. Quickly, he calms himself down, reminds himself he’s going at Harry’s pace, not his own frantic and inquisitive one.

“You were just fated to make it,” Louis teases, instead of asking more questions.

It’s worth not getting his answers for the way Harry smiles back at him, part amusement, part relief.

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs. “I think most of it is probably luck, rather than fate,” he says, before starting to eat again. “But who knows,” he adds as he swallows a big bite. He frowns, a little thing directed at his plate. Louis is about to ask him what’s wrong with the food when Harry speaks again.“Maybe it’s the opposite of luck,” he says darkly. “Whatever that is.”

“Karma?” Louis jokes and it really makes Harry laugh, snorting inelegantly before he puts a hand over his mouth and nose to muffle the sound.

“If I said something like that in public, I’d probably be lynched,” Harry manages to say through the laughter. “I mean, who am I to complain? S’not like I don’t live a privileged life.”

Louis hums. “For sure.”

It dampens the mood a little, all this talk of bad karma and luck, and the intangible place where they intertwine uncomfortably, interpreted in vastly different ways depending which way a head tilts.

“It’s alright, you know,” Louis finally says after a while.

“What?”

“If you _were_ testing me. It’d be alright. I wouldn’t mind.” He says it slowly, careful as he measures his words, wanting the message to come across as plainly as possible. “I’d get it,” he adds, offhandedly. He means it too, truly. It’s impossible to take it as an attack on his own character when he can only guess how vicious people have been to Harry in the past. “It’s not like you can trust just anyone.

Harry pauses, putting a small piece of fish back into his plate without eating it. “Yeah,” he agrees and his face really says it all, the way he closes himself off, eyes troubled and avoiding Louis’ direct gaze.

He’s been betrayed before. Louis isn’t stupid enough not to have guessed that already.

“Obviously, I’m not going to like…” Louis clears his throat, suddenly a little uncomfortable. He fiddles with his plate, biting his lower lip and trying to find a non-dramatic way of saying what he wants to say. When it becomes obvious he can’t think of anything, Louis simply says: “betray you, or whatever. Anything like _that_.” It comes out a little more clumsily than Louis intended and he starts talking again to try and divert attention from that fact. “I know that,” he declares sternly. “I know that for a fact. But you don’t.” He adds the last part softly.

“I do know,” Harry argues, interrupts, looking a bit offended on Louis’ behalf. “I told you before, I wouldn’t have shared so much stuff with you if I didn’t think you could be trusted.”

“I know that, and I’m very touched.” Louis pauses, taking a deep breath. “All I’m saying is that it’s okay if there’s a part of you that doesn’t know. If there’s a part of you that thinks I need to be tested, or whatever. I’m not bothered. I’m not offended. But Harry, no matter how many times you instruct me to do it, I’m not going to suddenly be tempted to google you. Or screw you over. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about ‘Harry Styles’™.”

Louis says the last part jokingly, winking at Harry, thinking it’s going to make him smile at least, but he doesn’t say anything for a while.

“Harry?” Louis finally asks after a moment, voice dripping with uncertainty.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

Louis snorts. When he speaks again, he has to look away, a bit scared he’s going to look too fond, too eager. “You don’t have to say anything.”

&

“OH MY GOD!”

The screaming comes from upstairs and Louis freezes, both hands in the sink as he drops his mug of tea half washed. He turns off the hot water tap with a frown, heartbeat increasing, listening for more.

“OH MY GOD LOUIS !” Harry screams again, starting to run down the stairs, and Louis’ heart squeezes painfully in his chest, fear bubbling as his mind races between various apocalyptic scenarios that could have Harry shouting across the cottage like this.

He runs out of the kitchen with his hands still soapy and slams into Harry’s body in the corridor. He grabs onto his shoulders, steadying them both and making sure they don’t fall over.

“Are you alright? Is everything okay?” Louis asks, eyes roaming Harry’s face, Harry’s body, trying to see if he’s injured. “Is it Clifford?”

“Oh my god, you have to come!” Harry says, excitedly, eyes wide and sparkling, turning around and leading the way.

“What?” Louis says, shaking his head, confused by the whiplash.

“Come!” Harry says, looking back and reaching for one of Louis’ wet hands, tangling their fingers together and dragging him forward. “It’s incredible!!! You have to come and see!!”

“See what?” Louis replies, still confused as Harry drags him through the corridor and pushes the front door open, leading them both into the darkness.

“Look!” Harry exhales, stopping a few meters away from the lighthouse, not close enough to the cliffs for it to be dangerous. “Look at the sky!” he exclaims, tightening his grip on Louis’ hand.

And of course Louis is looking, Louis is looking at the illuminated sky, ribbons of colours shifting, swirling over the stars like beams of lights dancing with the universe, making them seem so small, so unimportant. Greens that move and suddenly seem blue, purples transcending into pinks, like they’re twirling under the blow of the Scottish winds.  

“Oh my god!” Harry keeps whispering. “Oh my god!”

Louis looks away from the sky for a second, takes a step forward, looks at Harry’s face. He’s enthralled, breathing laboured from sheer excitement and Louis can see it, can see the smoke coming out of his mouth and he’d forgotten it was cold for a second there. He’d forgotten he ran out of the house without a jacket on at night, in the winter. With Harry’s hand in his and the abstract painting created for them by the laws of nature, Louis can’t find it in himself to care.

“This is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen!” Harry says, eyes never leaving the sky.

Louis feels his face soften into a small smile. “Have you never seen northern lights before?”

Harry shakes his head. “No! I… I didn’t know they were so…” He laughs. “Are they very common?” he finally asks after a beat.

Louis hums. “Winter’s a really good time for them. And we’ve got a pretty good location, of course.”

“I can’t believe it,” Harry says, overjoyed, overwhelmed. “Photos don’t do them justice at all! It’s...” He falters, unable to find words.

Louis chuckles on an exhale, finally looking away from Harry’s profile and back at the sky. “No,” he agrees, “I suppose they don’t.”

They stand there holding hands, silently watching for who knows how long, and Louis doesn’t feel the cold, doesn’t feel the wind. He doesn’t feel anything except the warmth of Harry’s body against his, the weight of his hand in Louis’, the contagion of his joy. They watch until the lights vanish and when they do, Louis closes his eyes, still holding Harry’s hand, silently wishing he could stretch this moment just a little longer.  


	7. Chapter 7

Harry kisses him for the first time on his birthday. 

February brings the uncomfortable knowledge that Harry’s time on the island is almost over; a painful and constant thought in the back of Louis’ mind that he’s tried hard to suppress so far, but can no longer ignore. It hurts sharply to be reminded that Harry is someone Louis is destined to lose, but he does is best to ignore the bittersweetness of it, choosing instead to focus on making the day as special as possible for the birthday boy. Harry is only going to turn twenty-five once and despite his insistence that he doesn’t want anything, no fuss for Mr Popstar please, Louis isn’t going to leave such a milestone pass unnoticed. He might know that it’s a meaningless one, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let his boy not be celebrated properly.

In the morning, Louis forgoes cooking breakfast – and his jog – dragging Harry to Mrs Clark’s bakery for coffee instead, both of them gorging themselves on her breakfast rolls and fancy pastries, taking their time chatting and eating with Clifford sitting between their feet under the table. Louis smiles, fond as he watches Harry animatedly tell a funny story from one of his tours, something about a technical mishap that left him awkwardly standing on stage in front of 20 000 people while his tech people buzzed around him like flies. Louis forgets sometimes, in the quiet way Harry behaves, that he’s a big fucking deal.

Louis laughs in all the right places, teasing Harry the way he knows he loves to be teased, loving when his cheeks redden under the attention, cheeks dimpling and eyes sparkling. Despite it all, despite the jokes and the laughter, there’s a hint of sadness underneath Harry’s storytelling that Louis thinks might always be there, a dark undercurrent associated with _fame_ that Harry will probably never fully shake off, a melancholia Louis can easily sense in the way the corner of Harry’s mouth moves, the way his head tilts. Still, the morning passes pleasantly, Louis feeding Harry more and more pastries while he, in turn, shares stories about his adolescent antics. Finally, a little past what would be considered an acceptable lunchtime, Harry declares himself way too full to eat anything else and Louis pays their bill, taking the opportunity to grab the birthday cake he ordered especially the week before when Harry exits the bakery first with Clifford, letting him stretch his legs happily in front of the store. It’s chocolate, decadent, way too big for only two people who have been stuffing their face off all day, but what the hell, it’s a special occasion. There are fancy gold letters spelling Happy Birthday Harry on the icing, the rest of the cake simple and void of decoration. It’s perfect.

When Louis finally joins Harry outside, he smirks at his eyes widening at the size of the box.

“If that’s cake, I truly cannot,” Harry declares dramatically, Clifford leash wrapped around one of his hands, the other rubbing against his belly.

“It’s your birthday,” Louis says firmly, leading them out of town towards the road that goes back the Lighthouse, Clifford running ahead, happy to be outside and without a restraining leash. “You’re eating cake.”

They walk back in comfortable silence, their arms grazing against each other through their clothing. Every time their fingers accidentally brush together, they break apart, putting some distance between their bodies only to end up back at the start, Louis with his heart in his throat and his fingers itching to grab Harry’s hand.

When they get in sight of the lighthouse, Louis leads them down the cliffs towards the beach. The sun is shining through the clouds, a surprisingly clear and crisp winter day he would hate to waste inside. Quickly enough, they’re both sprawled on the sand together, the day beautiful despite the cold and Louis gets Harry to eat at least a small part of his birthday cake, humming happy birthday to him under his breath while Harry laughs and brushes crumbs off his face.

Clifford is sleeping on Harry’s lap, sighing into his creamy white jumper every few minutes while Harry licks the last few crumbs off his fingers.  
  
“The afternoon is yours,” Louis declares from Harry’s right once he’s done eating. He hasn’t planned anything beyond breakfast, wanting to do whatever Harry wished for, wanting to truly make it _his_ day.   
  
“Let’s stay here,” Harry says quietly, closing the cake box and putting it aside for later, the Har of his name now gone, shared between the two of them.   
  
“Aren’t you cold?”   
  
Harry shakes his head, hair going crazy in every direction because of the wind, that strong Scottish breeze they can never escape, especially not near the water like this. Of course, he’s got a lapful of warm dog to keep him comfy while Louis is freezing under his jacket but he’d never say a word. Not today, not ever.   
  
“Alright,” Louis whispers, mostly to himself, agreeing without second thoughts and it’s still so scary that he feels this way. “We’ll stay right here.” 

So they do, silent and peaceful, watching the waves.   
  
“I love the ocean,” Harry admits after a while. “I always went to the water whenever it got to be too much back in LA.”   
  
“Yeah?” Louis prompts, looking away from the sea and into Harry’s face.

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he confirms, an absent look on his face. Briefly, Louis wonders if he’s mentally back on some warmer, trendier beach right now. But his eyes refocus on Louis’, hesitant as he speaks again. “Sometimes all those eyes on me…” he begins before shaking his head. “All the lies they saw when they looked at me? All the truths…” He lowers his head. “I felt dirty,” he says, a small admission. “But the water? The water is cleansing. The waves keep coming no matter what, no matter who you are, making you feel brand new. You can lose yourself in the water, turn invisible. The entire world disappearing except for you. “S’why I missed England so much, I think. Not enough rain in California.”

Louis agrees, familiar with the feeling. “Sometimes you just need a good rainy day to clean yourself of the bad ones.” He’s always loved the way the earth smells fresh after a rainy day, like maybe there’s hope to make things right this time, the whole world damp but purified.  
  
Harry smiles, uselessly pushing a curl behind his ears, fighting the wind. “Exactly.”   
  
“Well, it’s certainly not rain we’re lacking here in Scotland,” Louis says teasingly. Softly.   
  
“It’s why I love this island so much.” Harry looks to his lap, refusing to meet Louis’ eyes, slowly petting down the length of Clifford’s body. “No one for miles and miles and plenty of water for me to be reborn.”   
  
Louis gulps, heart tightening when Harry talks like that. Most people Louis knows would argue there’s no poetry in pop music, that it’s all manufactured nonsense lacking depth, but the way Harry expresses his feelings so plainly yet so beautifully… It’s like every word falling from his lips is a pearl, a poem waiting to happen. Just looking for the right ears to appreciate it.   
  
“And me,” Louis can’t help but add. There’s no one for miles and miles and plenty of water and there’s Louis.   
  
He can see the hint of a dimpled smile behind a curtain of curls, Harry still looking down at who Louis can’t help but think of as _their_ dog now. How did this happen so fast? What has he gotten himself into…   
  
“And you,” Harry agrees in a whisper. “You don’t count though,” he says after a beat and a more insecure person would read rejection into it, but Louis has slowly watched them tiptoe around each other, softening around each other, for months now. He knows exactly what it means, the feelings hidden underneath.   
  
_You don’t count as people._   
  
Those vultures who take and take and take. The people, with their never-closing eyes, demanding more and more and more. Demanding things Harry doesn’t know how to give. Demanding until Harry was empty right down to the foundation of himself.   
  
But Louis, with the pit of want in his lower belly, can’t agree or take the compliment.   
  
“I do though,” Louis replies. Bitter. Sad. “I’m just like everyone else. I…” He sighs, passing a frustrated hand through his fringe, barely noticing the way his fingers shake from the cold. “I want...,” he says, meeting Harry's eyes with a desperate gaze, “I want so much from you.”

The admission stings on his tongue with something akin to shame and regrets that he was weak enough to let it slip. He wishes he could read Harry’s face the way he’s gotten so used to, but he’s met with a completely blank expression and wide green eyes.

Then, surprisingly, or maybe not, Harry shakes his head slowly. “No,” he replies with a tender voice, leaning towards Louis, one of his hands tangling into the hoodie under his jacket as he presses their lips together. It lasts a second, less than maybe, still a moment in the way it reshapes Louis’ existence.   
  
“No?” Louis asks, whispers, against Harry’s lips, ignoring the offended huff Clifford makes between them, unhappy his cushion moved.   
  
“No,” Harry repeats. “Not like everyone else. Not like everyone else at all. You make everything else quiet. Everything else disappears when I look at you.”   
  
“I…” Louis doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing, doesn’t know if it should scare him a bit. So he closes his mouth, stays silent, looking into Harry’s eyes and…  He just kisses Harry again and again on that cold beach, delighting in the little sighs falling from his lips, burying his fingers in the tangles of Harry’s hair, laughing against each other’s mouths when a particularly strong gust of wind erupts around them or when Cliff starts to wiggle between their bodies, tired of feeling ignored.

He chooses to waste the afternoon with the taste of Harry on his tongue and not say a thing.  

&  
  
Later, much later, after they’ve had dinner and after Louis serenaded Harry with a particularly horrendous rendition of ‘happy birthday’ that ended with him falling from the top of the piano into Harry’s waiting arms, they’re washing the dishes shoulders pressed together.   
  
“Thank you,” Harry says, nudging their shoulders together as he dries the b&b’s fancy wine glasses they used to drink Schloer, playing fancy for his birthday without putting Harry’s sobriety at risk. “That was the best birthday I’ve had in years.”   
  
Louis smiles, crinkly-eyed and knowing. “And I haven’t even given you your gift yet.” He resists the urge to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively.   
  
Harry hums. “You’ve given me plenty,” he replies, putting the dry glasses on the counter.   
  
“Good, because I didn’t know what to give to a rich pop star who can buy himself the world, so don’t expect anything brilliant,” Louis jokes, hating the hint of insecurity hidden underneath his teasing that he knows Harry will probably be able to pick up easily.   
  
Harry smiles, his red mouth fond as the corners of it turn up, before pushing Louis softly against the kitchen counter, pressing their bodies together with his hands firm against Louis’ waist as he bridges the distance between them and kisses him. It’s a big movie star kiss, an overwhelming connection of their two bodies, something that has no place in a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere, something that’s too big for Louis’ small life. He moans, letting Harry deepen the kiss, choosing not to worry and let himself enjoy the way his fingers slide into Harry’s curls, choosing to cherish this moment for exactly what it is. An anomaly. An outlier. Almost already a fond and unbelievable memory Louis goes back to when the loneliness of his chosen existence creeps in. Harry sweeps him off his feet without even trying and Louis… Louis wants this too much to worry about the consequences.

They kiss soft and they kiss deep, letting time slow down just for them, until Harry finally separates their mouths, looking into Louis’ eyes with almost unbearable intensity. He’s panting a little, one of his hands holding the nape of Louis’ neck, the other still holding onto his waist. Every touch of his skin is an anchor, stopping Louis from floating away from this moment.

“I’ll treasure anything you give me,” Harry says sincerely, pressing their foreheads together, “just because it’s from you.”   
  
When he opens the present later that night, Harry cries.

Louis wasn’t lying. It’s truly nothing special, or expensive, just a framed picture of the three of them cuddled up on the beach that Mrs Dunn had the kindness to take, stopping her walk to her tiny dog’s annoyance, just to help them out. It’s not a perfect photo, Clifford a happy blur at their feet, but the sea is a stormy dark blue, the waves beautiful and majestic behind them. More importantly, Harry looks happy: his head is slightly bowed down as his laugh at one of Louis’ jokes is recorded for prosperity, two massive crescent dimpling his cheeks. And Louis… Louis is exposed and vulnerable, not looking at the camera at all, not wanting to miss a second of Harry’s reaction, his eyes crinkling with a fondness he’d normally not want to advertise. But Harry is going away soon and this… this is the version of himself Louis wants him to remember.

On the back of the frame, Louis’ loopy and uneven handwriting labels the piece: “Harry, Louis & Clifford – Scotland, 2019”.   

“It’s so you don’t forget us,” Louis admits, hating the way his voice wavers a little. He clears his throat. “When you go back to record those songs you’ve been writing,” he adds. He’s not looking for confirmation or denial. He knows Harry’s leaving, knows someone like him could never belong to just one person or one place, knows he’d be wrong to expect it. Knows he’d be wrong – selfish – to want him to.

Harry nods and he’s not denying he’s leaving. He never would. Still, there are tears in his eyes, an emotion Louis can’t read on his face. Something like awe and disbelief. “So I don’t forget myself again,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, fingers shaky as he traces the inscription before looking at the photo again. All that water. And Louis.

&

Later that night, they climb the stairs to the lantern room in silence, Louis awkwardly holding a torch from behind Harry’s body to light their way. Once they get to the top, peering through the windows into the darkness, it feels like the world stops, like they’re right at the edge with nothing but the void ahead, the void around. Louis knows the ocean surrounds them though, can hear the waves through the windows; the angry wind a reminder of how small they are. Somehow, the darkness feels embracing rather than scary, a warm blanket that’s familiar and comforting.

Just like Louis, Harry is lost in thought, frozen at the top of the stairs with seemingly no intentions to move towards the bench at all. Louis gives him a few seconds to find his bearing in the dark, but after a hint too long without movement, he presses a careful hand onto Harry’s lower back, reminding him of his presence without pushing him forward. He scratches a little against the wool of the tacky jumper Harry is wearing – a red, yellow and orange lozenge patterned atrocity Louis let him borrow earlier after he spilt hot chocolate on his. It’s barely illuminated by Louis’ torch but still, the pattern gives him a headache.

“Okay?” Louis whispers against Harry’s neck, tempted to let his hand wander, tempted to wrap his arm around Harry’s waist, to touch _beyond_ what he’s been allowed so far, to continue the tame exploration he started when they kissed earlier on the beach. The want thrums beneath his skin, making his fingers itchy.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a tiny step back when he hears Harry’s raspy voice confirms he’s alright. Louis breaking the silence broke the spell though and Harry finally steps forward until he reaches the bench, sitting down and curling himself under a blanket straight away. He looks cosy – he looks _soft_ – under the feeble light of Louis’ torch, his curls messy where Louis’ fingers spent most of the afternoon buried. He blinks up slowly at Louis before reaching for a discarded book on the wooden chest and holding it out towards him.

There’s nothing particularly sexy about the way he’s sprawled against the cushion, most of his body hidden under the wool blanket except for one arm and one sock-covered foot. And yet, Louis feels something tighten low in his belly, a desire he’s become quite good at suppressing these past few months as he got to know Harry. There’s something heady about the knowledge he might not have to talk himself off that ledge anymore, that he might get to curl up against him and _touch_ now. He might get to touch all the places where Harry is soft and authentic.

It’s intoxicating.

“Read to me?” Harry asks, his low voice sending chills down Louis’ spine. Normally, Louis would tease him at least a little for being so needy, for making diva demands like the popstar that he is, but it’s his birthday and Louis is far too gone to resist him.

So he clears his throat, passing a shaky hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. “Of course,” he finally replies after a few seconds of charged silence, grabbing the book out of Harry’s hand, their fingers grazing against each other for an instant before Louis settles down on the bench next to Harry, their shoulders touching.

He smiles when he realises it’s a book Harry has been fiddling with for a while now, a collection of Edna St. Vincent Millay poems he’s been thumbing through for weeks, folding the corners of his favourites and underlining passages when he thinks Louis isn’t looking.

“Any specific requests?” Louis teases as he tries to find a comfortable way to hold both the book and the torch, squirming against the cushions until Harry reaches for the torch and snatch it from Louis’ hand. He cuddles up against Louis, putting his head on his shoulder and pointing at the book with the torch.

Then, Harry looks up to Louis expectedly. “Just read,” he says. “Please. I love your voice.”

It’s not the first time he’s said so, but Louis’ heart still skips a beat like it is. “Okay,” he agrees, wrapping his free arm around Harry’s shoulder and starting to read in a low voice. Barely above a whisper. Even with the sound of the wind whistling through the windows, there’s no need for more than that for the two of them.

They’ve been at it for a while when Louis stumbles upon a poem that makes his throat constrict painfully, his voice shaky as he says words he knows Harry feels, the small line of black ink underneath the passage unnecessary for Louis to recognise it as such.

“Searching my heart for its true sorrow, this is the thing I find to be: that I am weary of words and people, sick of the city, wanting the sea;”

Harry sneaks the hand not holding the torch behind Louis’ neck, gripping the skin there. Tight.

“Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness, of the strong wind and shattered spray; wanting the loud sound and the soft sound, of the big surf that breaks all day,” Louis continues to recite, his breath hitching when Harry presses a kiss to the exposed skin of his neck.

“Harry…” Louis whispers, lowering the book against his knee and turning his head to look at him, at his expressive face partly illuminated by the torch, his lips parted in a silent question and his eyes wide. Hungry.

They stare at each other in silence and, for a moment, Louis thinks _this is torture_ , to want so much and so deeply, to be so close, and still be denied. But he’ll never take that first step, not when Harry’s been pushed and pushed and pushed in the past. He’ll wait all night with fire burning in his veins and his heart in his throat if he has to.

Harry doesn’t seem to be questioning everything in the same way and suddenly, he lets the torch fall to the floor, rolling away from the bench and plunging them into darkness as it now illuminates only a small corner of the room far away from them. Then, he fumbles for the book in the dark, his fingers cold against Louis’ for a second as he grabs the poem collection and lets it drop to the floor with a small thud before climbing on top of Louis’ lap to kiss him. Louis moans as their lips meet, as Harry’s hands grab onto his neck, his thumbs rubbing soft circles against Louis’ jaw.  

He can’t believe they waited until today to do this. Not when they’re so good at it, when their bodies click in a way Louis isn’t sure he wants to ponder too long.

Slow, heated – Harry takes what he wants and Louis is happy to let him lead, straightening up to follow Harry’s mouth and grabbing at his waist gently. After a while, Louis sneaks his hands under Harry’s jumper to touch bare skin, a hint of smugness rising through him at the way he shivers in response. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss; Louis’ fingers digging into the muscles of Harry’s lower back, sliding under the waistband of his jeans, teasing at the curve of his backside… Until Harry tenses at Louis’ forwardness, stopping the kiss abruptly with the palm of his hands pressed against Louis’ chest.

Louis lets go of Harry’s body immediately, his arms falling open on the bench, heart in his throat at the thought he’s overstepped a boundary he didn’t even know was there.

Harry is wide-eyed, looking a little shocked, a little remorseful at what he’s just done – though Louis can’t tell if it’s the kiss or pushing Louis away that he regrets. He’s panting from his perch on Louis’ thighs and, suddenly, Louis worries it might be a panic attack. Without meaning to, he lifts his right hand in concern, automatically reaching for Harry’s shoulder to soothe him with his touch before he remembers himself, remembers the way he was just pushed away, and he stops, hand hovering awkwardly for a moment.

Before Louis has a chance to move away though, Harry reaches for that hand, tangling their fingers together. Tight. Crushing. A little painful. There’s something about the way he’s holding onto Louis, something in the desperation and fear of that grasp... Like maybe he thinks Louis would ever leave him hanging, would ever let him go, in a time of need. Louis grips him right back as tightly, a reassuring pulse that makes Harry take a deep breath. He brings both of their hands to rest on his thigh, not loosening his grip at all, eyes fixed on the way their fingers intertwine together.

Louis follows his gaze, admiring the way his slightly smaller hand fits in Harry’s, taking in the feeling of Harry’s guitar calluses against his skin. “Hey,” he whispers as reassuring as he can, something in him coming loose with relief when he feels Harry’s body relax slightly at the sound of his voice.

“Hey,” Harry whispers back, using his free hand to brush Louis’ hair off his forehead, his touch hesitant but gentle. He’s not looking into Louis’ eyes, gazed still locked onto their hands. “Hey,” he says again, a bit more determined this time, green eyes flicking up as he leans down towards Louis again.

Louis closes his eyes when Harry lets their lips brush against each other, soft, featherlike. When he opens them again, Harry is looking straight ahead, beyond Louis, through the glass and into the dark stormy night.

“You okay?” Louis can’t help but ask uselessly when the answer is evidently no.

Harry shakes his head with a small huff and his lips curling into a tiny grimace, barely visible in the corner of his mouth, like maybe he’s embarrassed.

“It’s just… I...”  He stops himself and Louis automatically tighten his hold on Harry’s hand in response. “I haven’t… not since…” Harry trails off, eyes still fixed somewhere on the horizon.

There’s not much to see, not in the middle of the winter night like this, but Louis wonders if there’s something about the void and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs around them that Harry finds reassuring too. He wouldn’t be the first troubled soul to find kinship in the perpetual storm that brews on the island. Louis, who has made a home out of it, would know.

Louis hums, rubbing his free hand slowly up and down Harry’s thigh where he’s perched on Louis’ lap, his touch purposefully slow and soothing. There’s nothing sexual about it anymore, no heat or impatience. Just solace.

After a few beats, Harry tries again.

“I haven’t…. I haven’t done this sober in a really… really long time,” he finally admits. Then he chuckles, a half-hearted thing, as he keeps looking through the glass of the lighthouse tower. He sounds embarrassed and even in the darkness, Louis can see a blush spreading on the top of his cheeks. “I don’t know why that seems like such a big deal suddenly,” he whispers, still unable to meet Louis’ eyes. “It’s stupid,” he adds a bit angrily, his shoulders hunched like he’s trying to hide.

There’s always been a vulnerability to the way Harry holds himself, from the first second Louis saw him waiting at the door, and it’s never been more evident than now. He’s like the most beautiful flower Louis has ever seen, seconds away from blooming and still he’s holding back, curling into himself shyly. Sometimes, Louis hates the world that made him feel that way so sharply that it hurts, twisting his insides with a mixture of the ugliest of feelings.

“It’s not stupid,” he whispers back firmly, pressing the words against Harry’s jaw. “It’s okay,” he insists, his thumb still softly rubbing at Harry’s thigh. The monster of _want_ at the pit of his stomach can be tamed easily when Harry looks fragile like this. “Whatever you want. Or don’t want babe,” he continues into Harry’s ear, his beard rubbing against the tentative stubble on Harry’s cheek, the endearment falling from his lips easily.

Louis loosens his grip on Harry’s thigh and lets go of his hand, already moving his body away from him, putting some distance between them. He barely has time to move when Harry’s hands catch his wrists. Louis looks up, meeting Harry’s eyes for the first time in a while and he feels his stomach clench at the burning determination painted on Harry’s face, the desire flickering in his eyes like a guiding flame. Their eyes never leave each other as Harry slowly moves Louis’ hands, guiding them towards his body, letting them slide under the wool of his jumper, Louis’ fingers trembling as they touch the naked skin of Harry’s lower belly for the first time. As Harry guides him lower.

“Touch me,” Harry whispers, leaning into Louis, pressing the words against his lips. “Please.”

Louis smiles against Harry’s mouth, then nods.

He can do that.

&

It’s still completely dark when Louis wakes on the floor of the lantern room a few hours later. He shivers, half of his naked body exposed to the cold room, the blanket covering him tangled below his waist and doing nothing to keep his torso warm. Automatically, he snuggles forward, his body curling even closer into Harry’s, his nose burying itself in the curls at the nape of his neck. His right arm tightens its hold onto Harry’s waist from under the jumper he had the wisdom to put back on, his fingers trying to steal some of the warmth of Harry’s body as their naked legs tangle further together. He has no idea what time it is, no idea how long they’ve been sleeping there on the rug, but he’s tempted to let himself drift off again, despite the discomfort. Harry’s body is pliant and soft; an inviting abode Louis wants to sink into forever. But Harry starts shivering in his sleep despite the fact he’s more dressed than Louis is and he can’t, in good conscience, leave him to sleep so uncomfortable.

The torch batteries have long given out, but still, Louis takes a second to peer at Harry in the darkness. The hint of his lean legs under the blanket. The slope of his nose. The curves of his eyelashes. His big heart that feels too much, the one he had to rip from his sleeve on the road to fame but that Louis can’t help but still see through every careful word coming out of Harry’s mouth, every gesture, every breath.

It’s... a lot, Louis thinks, closing his eyes for a second and gulping. His fingers are still pressed against Harry’s belly and he slides his hand up until it rests against his waist, gripping him a hint tighter.

“Harry?” he whispers gently, right into his ears, before pressing a kiss against his temple. “Love?”

Harry hums, tilting his head slightly. He’s still shivering.

“Come on darling,” Louis whispers encouragingly, sitting up and using the hand not on Harry’s waist to brush his hair off his face. Louis repeats the movement when Harry hums contentedly and leans into the touch, indulging him for a second before trying to wake him again. “Come on, wake up babe,” he continues, louder this time, thumb digging into Harry’s love handle with a bit more force. “It’s late, we gotta get you to bed, yeah?”

Harry’s eyelashes flutter and he groans, a small protest before he tries to curl further into himself to keep warm. “‘M cold,” he mumbles, pressing a freezing foot against Louis’ calf.

Louis chuckles. “I know, that’s why we gotta get you to a proper bed. With a duvet and everything.”

“No,” Harry says, a hint petulant, reaching for Louis’ hand on his waist, trying to get him to wrap his arm around him properly. “Big spoon me,” he demands.

Louis can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes his lips. He’s fully awake now and he knows there’s no way he can let Harry sleep on the floor of the tower in February, especially not half naked. Still, again, he indulges him by wrapping his arm around Harry’s body, rubbing his hand against the wool of his jumper to create heat.

“Who knew post-coital Harry would be such a brat uh,” Louis teases before pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “How about if I promise to _big spoon you_ ,” he says in a poor imitation of Harry’s low drawl, “once we get to bed? And if I promise you won’t have to go too far?” Harry doesn’t reply, doesn’t even move, and Louis suspects he might be falling asleep again so he jostles him a little. Gently, but firmly. “Come on love, just a few stairs and then we can share my bed, yeah?”

“Mmmm.”

“Mmmm?” Louis repeats, still teasing.

“Mmmkay,” Harry mumbles.

“Don’t fall back asleep,” Louis warns, untangling himself from Harry completely and swearing under his breath as he tries to grab his clothes scattered around the room quickly in the dark.

Finally, after a bit of stumbling and stubbing his toe against the chest in the middle of the room, Louis grabs Harry’s pants, jeans and socks, and gets back to the little nest they made for each other.

“You asleep again?” Louis asks, fonder than he would let himself be if he knew Harry was awake. “Yeah, ‘course you are.” He shakes his head with a sigh, a treacherous smile in the corner of his mouth. He drops the clothes next to Harry’s body, leaning over him to kiss his forehead. “Hey sleepy head,” he says, booping Harry’s nose with his index. “We had a deal.”

“M’wake”.

“Uh uh.”

“ ‘M.”

To demonstrate the veracity of his claim, Harry wiggles his toes under the blanket. Louis smiles, despite himself, grabbing one of Harry’s feet from over the blanket and squeezing once before freeing it from the material. Harry hisses at the cold, shoulders raising as he curls even further into himself, and Louis wastes no time putting his first sock on. He repeats the process with the other foot, kissing his wool covered ankle once he’s done. Then, he pushes the blanket further up Harry’s body, uncovering his calves, the stupidly endearing back of his knees and just a hint of his thighs before stopping.  Louis’s hands are soft as he caresses the back of Harry’s leg, a feather-like touch that has nothing to do with convincing Harry to get to bed, a touch that’s just for Louis because he’s allowed now, he’s privileged beyond words.

Harry shivers again, this time not from the cold, and he finally turns onto his back, his legs falling open on the rug, the blanket bunched up on his lap in a semblance of modesty. His eyes meet Louis’, sleepy but captivating, and Louis doesn’t know where to look between the intensity of Harry’s gaze and the milky white of his inner thighs. He might never get enough of this sight; Harry’s face is lax with sleep, no masks in place to protect himself from scrutiny yet, one of his hands tangled in his hair, the other under his jumper on his lower belly…

Slowly, purposefully, Louis grabs the blanket and slides it off to uncover Harry’s body, arousal thrumming through his veins. Then, unable to stop himself, Louis leans down to kiss Harry’s inner thigh, his thumb digging into the tiger tattooed on his leg. He makes his way, lips soft but greedy, up, up, up… until he feels Harry’s hand grabbing the back of his head. Looking up, their eyes meeting, Louis feels lips turning up into a satisfied smirk when Harry nods and guides his mouth where he most wants it, fingers tight in Louis’ hair.   

After, Louis kisses Harry’s hip bone, his hands rubbing the outside of Harry’s thighs for a few seconds before he kneels again, reaching for the forgotten pants and sliding them up Harry’s legs. Then, he crawls up his body to press a small kiss on Harry’s mouth, still open in a pant. Before Harry gets a chance to deepen the kiss, a chance to distract him, Louis leans away, tucking a sweaty curl off Harry’s face.

“Bed, yeah?” he whispers, a smile spreading over his face when Harry nods sleepily.

“Dunno if I can walk,” Harry admits. Boneless. Red-cheeked. Sated.

Louis chuckles, pride blooming in his chest and he looks down for a second before getting up, trying to hide his self-satisfied smirk. Then, he leans back down, grabbing Harry’s forearm gently to help him up. When he stumbles a little, Louis wraps an arm around Harry’s waist, pressing their bodies together and holding him in place.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

Harry yawns, then he nods.

“Want to put your jeans back on?” Louis asks, laughing when Harry wrinkles his nose with distaste.

He curls a little into Louis' body, trying to hide his face into Louis' neck, mumbling something like " 'm cold" into Louis' skin.

"That's why you should put clothes on baby," Louis teases before untangling Harry from his body, making sure he's holding himself properly. Then, he bends down to grab the discarded wool blanket. It’s soft and it’s warm, should do the trick as they walk back to Louis’ bedroom, so he wraps it around Harry’s shoulder like a cape, securing the corners of it into the collar of Harry’s jumper, certain he wouldn’t want to bother with holding it up. He kisses the tip of Harry’s nose as the finishing touch, loving the way Harry smiles in response.

Silently, carefully, they make their way down the stairs in the dark, Louis' hand on Harry's hipbone as he walks behind him and makes sure he's not tripping all over himself. He refuses to waste time regretting not looking for a working torch, focusing instead on making sure they both make it down the spiral staircase intact. But as they stumble awkwardly pressed together, Louis can’t help but think he’s made a mistake. Still, they successfully reach the bottom of the stairs, then Louis’ bedroom, the door partly open already. They’re both so exhausted Louis only has a passing thought for the fact that maybe his cabin like room is embarrassing, that maybe he should feel ashamed of its size, of what it reveals about the state of his lonely existence to Harry for the very first time. But Harry simply yawns as he walks in, clearly too tired to pass any kind of judgement on Louis’ living quarters. The creaking noises of the door wake up Clifford who was sleeping on the floor beneath Louis’ bed in their absence from the ground floor and he gets up with a small bark, nosing at Harry’s feet with curiosity.

"Hey Cliffy, you beauty," Harry says in a soft fond voice despite the fatigue, extending an arm towards Clifford's face and letting his hand be licked. He yawns again, using his other hand to rub at his eyes and Louis walks around his body to get to the dog.

"Okay, enough boy," Louis warns kindly, pushing him away with gentle but forceful hands.

Clifford obeys immediately, good boy that he is, curling back up in his spot straight away, big body dropping to the floor with a thud as he lets out a loud sigh. Louis smiles, turning to face Harry again. "Just a few steps left and you can sleep," he announces, head tilting towards the ladder leading up to his single bed. "Might be a bit tight," he says apologetically, still trying not to feel embarrassed.

Louis isn't a lonely person exactly. And even when he is, he mostly finds it okay, his reclusive soul comfortable with days filled with only his own company. Yet, the fear of being judged for choosing this existence, this existence where he only needs a tiny cramped bed for himself and no guests almost ever, never fully goes away. Especially in front of someone like Harry, someone he wants so desperately to cling to, someone he wants so desperately to keep. Even though he knows he can't.

Still, Harry just smiles, sleepy eyes half closed. "Good," he replies, starting his ascent, "you'll keep me warm."

Louis inhales deeply, then closes the door fully behind them to avoid the draft, silently hoping Clifford will be able to stay put until they wake up naturally. He makes his way up the ladder, smiling to himself when he sees Harry has already curled himself under Louis' duvet, facing the wall and offering his back to Louis, the wool blanket still tightly wrapped around his shoulder. Louis moulds himself to Harry's body, ankles to ankles, knees to knees, his arm tightly locked around Harry's waist, his hand flat against Harry's chest, feeling the soothing beats of his heart.

It barely takes a few minutes for him to be lulled to sleep.

&

Louis wakes slowly, goes from a half-slumber still dreamy state to fully alert with steady breaths, his hands searching for Harry’s warmth before he opens his eyes to an empty space in front of him. He blinks twice before sitting up and looking around his room with confusion. The curtains on his window are open and the sunlight is spilling into his room, concrete proof that he’s slept a lot longer than he normally would. With his internal clock all messed up, Louis untangles himself from the blankets, stretching his legs for a second, before starting to look under his pillow for his phone, eager to know what time it is. His hand comes up empty and, in a flash, he remembers leaving it in the lantern room the night before. He sighs, shaking his head at himself. He’s not sure he can be bothered to pick it up before talking to Harry, before finding out where he’s run off to.

Louis gets out of bed, skipping the last few steps of the ladder in favour of jumping, hissing in discomfort when his naked feet hit the floor. He eyes the bathroom door for a second, his shower’s siren call tempting after the previous night’s activities. Except Harry wasn’t in bed with him when he woke up, is nowhere to be found so far, and Louis doesn’t think he can wait to make sure he’s okay, that he doesn’t regret what happened. He turns towards his dresser, taking his top off and throwing it blindly towards the dirty laundry pile in the corner of his room. He sends a spare prayer to the universe that Harry, somehow, didn’t notice the mess when he woke up, before grabbing a fresh jumper and throwing it on. He’s too sleepy to dress to impress so he grabs a clean pair of pants and some grey sweats, satisfied that his dark blue jumper at least matches his eyes. Besides, Harry has seen him in much more relaxed outfits before and he kissed him anyway. If Louis gets his way, he’ll spend most of the day with his mouth attached to Harry’s again. Ideally. If Harry’s willing. If he’s still here.

Louis shakes his head, dismissing the ridiculously anxious thought. Of course, Harry is still here. Where else would he be? Fair Isle is less than 5 km long, realistically, there are not many other places he could be. And he’s paid to stay until mid-March. There’s absolutely no reason to read into the fact that Harry’s left him to wake up alone.

Finally dressed, Louis goes to the bathroom for a piss, washing his hands, his face, then cleaning his teeth before leaving his bedroom to walk back to the B&B section.

His nerves settle down when he starts hearing noises coming from the kitchen, Harry’s voice performing what sounds like a made-up song about breakfast. There’s not much lyrics to the song, just a few “scrambled eggs!”, “pain au chocolat!”, “orange juice!” and “croissant!” with some deep“lalalalas” in between, but Louis physically has to stop in the corridor and take a few slow breaths with his hand pressed to his heart.

How fucking cute.

When Louis finally feels calm enough to walk into the kitchen, his face back to neutral and not fond beyond words can express, Harry looks caught red-handed, one of the previous B&B owners’ aprons tied around his waist on top of a stretched white tee. He’s holding a pan with one hand, wearing what seems to be a pair of Louis’ sweats if the way they cut off just above his ankles is to be trusted.

A vintage attack on the senses, the apron is made of white cloth with red and pink flowers, thrown around Harry’s neck and tied to his waist with a bright red ribbon, two deep red pockets on each side of the skirt. The whole look is completed with a sweetheart neckline embellished with white lace, the colours a bit faded from use. Louis suspects the previous owners’ wife wore it a lot and must have missed it when she realised she’d forgotten it on the island. Despite never using it himself, Louis never threw it away after the first time his sisters visited and they all had fun playing dress up with it. On Harry, it looks both ridiculous and endearing. It suits him and his silly breakfast song.

“You’re awake,” Harry frowns, putting the pan back on the stove.

“Sorry to disappoint...?” Louis says, tone a bit questioning.

“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed,” Harry declares, pointing at his outfit, like that somehow explains it. “Duh.”

“Ah,” Louis nods, taking a step forward. He leans down to say good morning to Clifford, scratching him under his ears. “Hey babe,” he whispers to the dog.

“I fed him and took him out,” Harry says and when Louis looks back to him, he smiles a little shyly. “Figured you deserved a lie in.”

Louis scrunches his nose and smiles apologetically. “Sorry to ruin your plans ?”

“S’okay,” Harry shrugs and they stand there awkwardly, neither of them quite knowing what to do or what to say. Finally, after a few seconds, Harry turns back towards the stove, mumbling something about the food being almost ready, his shoulders hunched forward.

Louis rolls his eyes and huffs a small sigh, disappointed in his own self, before walking next to Harry and reaching into one of the pockets of his apron, dragging him closer with one sharp movement and pressing a loud kiss to his cheek.

“Hey babe,” he repeats, a satisfied and sharp feeling of pride in his chest when Harry smiles deeply in response.

“Heyyy,” Harry replies.

“Thanks for making food,” Louis continues, kissing his cheek again. “You look cute,” he adds without thinking, blushing when he realises when he’s just said. “I mean, not that all your appeal lies in your physical appearance obviously,” he babbles, fiercely aware the way Harry’s image has been sold over and over again, a literal price tag attached to his face and body. “What is physical beauty anyway?” he poses the question with a vague hand gesture. “Truly meaningless in the grand scheme of things.”

There’s a small beat of silence before Harry squeaks a high pitched laughter. He slaps a hand over his mouth in embarrassment, before shaking his head. “You done?” he asks, eyebrows raised and a look on his face like he knows _exactly_ what Louis was thinking and he finds him both adorable and ridiculous at the same time.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Louis mumbles.

“I’m not,” Harry denies, turning the stove off. “I appreciate that you have a frilly apron fetish and that you don’t just want to shag me for my physical appearance.

“I don’t have a frilly apron fetish!” Louis replies, pinching the skin of Harry’s waist, laughing so much he can barely talk.

“No, really,” Harry squeaks, leaning away from Louis’ fingers, “I can work with this. Trust me, I’ve seen more niche. It’s much better than what I was imagining either way.”

“What do you mean work with this?” Louis asks automatically before his brain catches up with what Harry said next. “Wait, what were you imagining?” he asks, pushing Harry away a little to look at his face.

“I like the fact that you were concerned about what I’m willing to do in the apron first and foremost.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “And nothing scandalous, don’t look like that. I just figured you might have a secret wife stashed away somewhere. Jane Eyre style.”

Louis’ mouth drops open. “A secret -” he shakes his head, disbelieving. “You found an apron that literally looks 50 years old in my kitchen cupboard and your first thought was that I have a secret wife? Harry, I’m obviously very gay and –” he stops his rant when he sees the twinkle in Harry’s eyes. “Oh, I see. Are you done making fun of me now?” Louis mumbles, folding his arms across his chest.

Harry giggles, leaning down a little towards Louis to kiss the petulant frown off his face. Louis would push him away just to be difficult but… He hasn’t kissed Harry in a few hours now. Basically a lifetime. And he hasn’t forgotten his goal for the day. So he lets Harry kiss him and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck to start playing with his curls. After a while, Harry leans away.

“Food,” he says sternly, pushing Louis towards the table.

“Can I hel-”

“You can sit down and let me take care of everything,” Harry orders, buzzing with energy as he grabs plates.

“By the way,” Louis starts as he sits down, smiling when Clifford walks to him and drops his head on Louis’ thigh, “I do think that beauty IS meaningless. And that it has no link so someone’s actual value as a person. I have a lot of little sisters okay, I meant that speech.”

Harry looks over his shoulder to smile at him. “I know,” he replies. He turns back around, fiddling with some stuff on the counter before coming back to put a glass of juice in front of Louis. “Orange juice,” he declares and Louis smirks.

“Lalalala?” he sings softly, imitating Harry’s song from before, laughing a little when he dimples and blushes.

“Yep,” Harry replies before coming back with a plate of pastries he clearly bought from the cafe and Louis’ stomach tighten at the thought of Harry getting up early and walking all the way to the village to get Louis pastries for breakfast.

“Thanks,” Louis says, fingers soft on Harry’s wrist. He grabs the apron with his other hand, dragging Harry down to kiss him again. “You didn’t have to go all the way to Mrs Clark’s.”

Harry blinks, looking caught. “Had to walk Cliff anyway, so…” He shrugs dismissively, like it isn’t a big deal, like it’s nothing, but Louis can’t remember the last time someone cooked for him properly, the last time someone took care of him.

With his job, he’s the one always taking care of others and while he likes it that way very much, there’s something softening in him as he’s being fussed over for the first time in a long time. God, he wishes he didn’t like Harry this much.

Next, Harry puts plates with scrambled eggs and sausages on the table. He takes the apron off, putting it on the counter, before fluffing his hair with delicate fingers. Then, he grabs the empty chair in front of Louis, moving it so he can sit right next to him, kindly pushing Clifford out of the way, replacing the weight of Cliff’s head on Louis’ thigh with the feeling of Harry’s pressed against it.

Louis would kill a man for his dog, but this… this is much better, he can’t help but think when Harry timidly reaches for Louis’ hand, tangling their fingers on his thigh as they eat breakfast inconveniently one-handed.


	8. Chapter 8

Later that day, much later, after they’ve done the dishes in tandem to the sounds of a soft jazz playlist that Harry carefully selected on Louis phone, picked up from the top of the tower when Louis was still sleeping, their shoulders pressed together as they swayed, Louis washing while Harry dried, they go back to the lantern room. They clean up their messes quickly, Harry blushing a little at the devastation they’ve caused the night before, cushions and blankets thrown haphazardly on the floor and mugs of tea miraculously not cracked where they’ve fallen off the chest. There’s even books on the floor, more than just the poetry book from last night, not to mention the torch they lost in the midst of passion. Louis didn’t remember it being that messy when they left, but he had been somewhat preoccupied at the time. 

They’re almost done with the cleaning, Louis finishing carefully putting the cushions back on the bench when he hears the creaky sound of the door leading to the gallery. He turns just in time to catch Harry sneaking outside the room, smiling a little when he leans on the railing with nothing but his flimsy white tee. There’s already goosebump on the flesh of his arms, Louis can tell, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind, looking ahead with the ever-present pensive look on his face that Louis has come to like so much. His hair is getting long, Louis can’t help but notice as the wind makes his curls dance against his cheeks. He looks beautiful in the late afternoon light; ethereal, yet not out of place even though maybe he should. The sun has started to set, bathing him in golden pink light. He looks like he belongs, looks as beautiful as the scenery and it hits Louis in the chest ferociously, like a bullet. Bang. This is really going to hurt him. 

Because Harry doesn’t belong, no matter how much he looks like he might, no matter how much Louis might want him to. He belongs in faraway cities, on a gigantic stage, in front of seas of people… He might not be sure if he’s going to continue his career right now, but Louis has a hard time imagining he’s ever going to find his way back here. Not when he has so much left to say, all those songs he’s been writing shyly that are going to need an audience soon. He going to leave, as he should, and it’s going to hurt.

If Louis were a stronger, wiser man, he might pick up the courage to talk about this. He might sit Harry down, establish some boundaries, discuss what the hell they think they’re doing right now when he’s scheduled to leave in a little over a month. But he’s not. He’s not a strong man, he’s a foolish one and he wants this. He wants to kiss Harry again and again, every second of every day until he leaves, wants to cherish the opportunity while he has it, before Harry goes back to being who he was born to be. Louis knows he’s nothing but an interlude, hopefully, a memory Harry will dwell upon with fondness once in a while, a little fling special enough to be remembered… And he wants it all. He wants so much more. Louis can’t even find it in himself to be upset, the thrill of Harry’s touch still coursing through his veins, the euphoria of what finally happened between them impossible to dampen. 

Louis sighs as he looks at the sunset, looks at Harry looking at the sunset, seeing the ribbon of pain still coursing through him, but also seeing the strength of his character, seeing the way he’s rebuilding himself and suddenly he has to blink back tears at how fiercely proud he is of this man. This dumbass who always works so hard and had to learn not to wear his heart on his sleeve in the cruellest of ways, but who never let it change the kindness of his spirit. This absolute complete dumbass shivering in nothing but a t-shirt outside on the gallery just to watch the sunset properly, to watch the sea. 

Louis shakes his head fondly before looking away, going straight for the chest and grabbing an ugly purple cardigan that came straight from hell in the 80s. Then, he joins Harry on the gallery, closing the door behind him and smirking a little at the fierceness of the wind. The whistling can almost always be heard through the glass but it’s truly unavoidable once outside, a powerful and overtaking sound. Louis doesn’t waste a second before walking straight to Harry, carefully placing the cardigan over his shoulders, just like he carefully placed the blanket over him last night. Harry tenses for a second, less than an instant, before relaxing into Louis’ body once he’s recognised that it’s him. Louis lets his hands slide from Harry’s shoulders and now his arms, making sure the fabric is secure over him before wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist from behind, enfolding him, their bodies so close together there isn’t a sliver of space between them. Louis scratches Harry’s belly for a second while pressing a kiss on top of his right shoulder. Then, he lets one of his palms rest soothingly on Harry’s lower belly, the other up near his heart, feeling the slow rise and fall of his deep breaths. Resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder, Louis takes in the sight of the dramatic cliffs and the tumultuous sea beyond them, the breathtaking sunset all around.

“Thanks,” Harry says, placing his right hand on Louis’ against his stomach and tangling their fingers. 

“Thought you might be cold,” Louis whispers, right into his ear. 

“M’not anymore,” Harry replies and for a while they just stand in silence, watching as the sky changes, reddens, darkens, slowly. 

After a while, Louis smiles almost absently. “That sky, uh,” he says, mostly to himself, still overwhelmed by the sight of it all those years later, still overwhelmed even though he gets to see it every day.  It’s a moving sight, the world around them so majestic in ways they have no control over. 

Harry hums in agreement, pensive and careful as usual. “I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in a lot of beautiful places,” he finally says after a moment of reflection, “but this view…” He pauses, takes a deep breath. Inhales. Exhales. “This place is so special,” he finally tells Louis, turning his head to face him. 

Louis tilts his head, their eyes meet, and Harry’s gaze softens. 

“I understand why you fell in love with it,” he adds, an emotion Louis isn’t quite sure he knows how to read stuck in his throat. Then, he leans forward to kiss Louis, who decides not to worry too much about it. 

Surely this shouldn’t still feel like the first time, but Louis’ heart skips a beat with trepidation all the same, with excitement, with disbelief. With a chorus of  _ Harry is kissing me! Harry is kissing me! Harry is kissing me!  _ going round and round in the back of his head. He really is such a fool. 

They keep kissing a for a few seconds until Harry tires of the awkward angle, turning around so his back is pressing against the railing, both of his hands on Louis’ neck as he deepens the kiss, as he takes what he wants. It can’t be very comfortable, but Louis has a hard time worrying about Harry’s back when he bites into his lower lip like that. Louis groans into his mouth, one hand grabbing onto the railing for balance as the other holds onto Harry’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh, keeping him in place. Suddenly, things start getting heated and Louis is kissing his way along Harry’s jaw, sucking into his neck, delighting in the little moans coming out of Harry’s mouth. Teasingly, he presses their thighs together, a hint of where he wants this to go, and Harry’s hips roll as he follows Louis’ movement. 

“Oh shit,” Harry says and it takes Louis a second to realise he sounds worried rather than turned on, detaching himself from Harry’s neck and looking at him with wide eyes. 

“What?” Louis asks, pushing Harry’s hair off his forehead and rubbing a thumb between his eyebrows, their bodies still a bit too tangled together. “What’s wrong?” 

“Your cardigan fell,” Harry says with a pant and Louis looks down at where the offensive garment now lies sadly on the roof of the cottage. 

“Who cares?” Louis shrugs, before leaning down to kiss Harry’s jaw again. “She’s not mine. And she’s a monster anyway,” he jokes against Harry’s skin, biting him teasingly where his jaw meets his neck, a little nip of the skin that makes him moan. 

“I like her though,” Harry gasps, reaching for Louis’ shoulders and grabbing at them. 

And that makes Louis pause, leaning away as he gives Harry a calculating look. 

“You like her?” He raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him for emphasis. 

“I love her,” Harry insists, eyes sparkling with mischief, body relaxed against the railing, cheeks bright red and his curls messy around his head. “I don’t want her to die an orphan.” 

They probably shouldn’t be doing this up here anyway, Louis figures, though he suspects many a customer has done the same without him knowing. Still, it probably isn’t the safest spot for a make-out session as the cardigan’s tragic fate confirms, but Harry’s hard to resist like this. When he’s joking and teasing, bright-eyed with just kissed lips. 

“You don’t want her to die an orphan,” Louis deadpans, managing to keep a straight face until the moment Harry shrugs coyly, then grins, dimples, and leans in to try and kiss him again. 

Louis takes a step backwards, avoiding the kiss with a laugh, and he keeps walking back until he’s pressed against the glass of the lantern, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Well,” he says teasingly, crossing one leg over the other, “if you don’t want her to die an orphan, I guess I’ll have to go and rescue her. So you can officially adopt her, you know?” He smirks when Harry’s face falls, the realisation he’s being denied more kisses slowly taking over his face. 

“We don’t have to do that now,” Harry insists, taking a step forward, reaching for Louis’ waist. 

Louis is too fast though, agile and prepared, and he steps out of the way just in time, reaching for the door to get back inside. 

“Delaying the rescue mission? Harry, what are you thinking?” he says as he opens it behind himself. “No, no, no, no, we can’t possibly to that. She’s had quite the fall. Every second count. This is a matter of great urgency.” He steps back into the lantern room, giggling when Harry rolls his eyes at him, huffing a little with a pouty smile.

“Come on,” Harry whines exaggeratedly, following Louis in and then down the stairs. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he insists with a small laugh.  

Ten minutes later, Louis is standing on top of the roof, one hand resting triumphantly on his hip while the other holds the precious cardigan up for Harry to see. The sun is practically fully set now, darkness enveloping them, but it’s more a principle thing than anything else. Harry is holding the ladder with two firm hands, Louis’ denim jacket cute and snug around his shoulders, but there’s a slightly worried look on his face. Louis can tell. 

“Okay, you’ve proven your point,” Harry calls when Louis jokingly curtsy and yells “you’re welcome!” 

“She’s gonna make it H,” Louis shouts back instead of getting down. “Don’t you worry.” 

“Can you come down now?” Harry asks, a tad impatient though Louis suspects it’s hiding more worry than anything else. “It’s dark now, you’ll fall off.” 

“How you underestimate me,” Louis teases before dramatically draping the cardigan over one of his shoulders and carefully making his way to the edge. 

Quickly enough, he’s back on the ground, presenting Harry with his prize.

“Your ugly child,” Louis jokes, wrapping the cardigan around Harry’s shoulder like a scarf, using it to drag Harry’s body forward. 

“My hero!” Harry jokingly swoons, easily following Louis’ lead until Louis’ back is pressed against the cottage wall. “How could I ever repay you?” he teases, breathes, against Louis’ lips. 

Then, without waiting for a second longer, he kisses him again. 

&

This time, they made it to Harry’s bedroom and Louis bathes in the luxury of a massive bed he never allows himself even when the Bed & Breakfast is empty, feeling the softness of the expensive sheets on his naked skin and smiling to himself as he lays on his back, one of Harry’s legs wrapped over his where he’s lying on his side next to him. 

Louis keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling for a while, feeling the weight of Harry’s gaze on his face but choosing not to say anything. He’s still surprised at how tidy Harry’s kept the room, no bags, or clothing in sight. He caught a glimpse of his guitar and a pile of notebooks in one corner when they barged in a couple of hours ago, but apart from that small hint of personal belongings, everything that Harry owns seems neatly tucked away. It fits him and his careful, calculated manner, Louis supposes. The kind of man who takes a while to reveal himself and keeps his inner feelings tucked away too. Louis smiles to himself as soon as the thought enters his mind, remembering all the times Harry has chosen to cautiously open to him, all the ways he’s been honest perhaps against his first instinct. 

“What?” Louis finally asks, sincere smile transforming into a teasing smirk in the corner of his mouth, when Harry’s gaze stubbornly refuses to move away. He means for it to come out jokingly impatient, but his voice betrays softness not matter what he intends when Harry is concerned. He’s always giving so much away. 

“Nothing,” Harry whispers, not moving an inch. 

“You’re staring at me.” Louis states the obvious, eyes fixed on the vintage industrial luminaire above. He had worried and fretted so much over every little choice when he had first started decorating the Bed & Breakfast and Louis particularly remembers some vicious fighting in his family groupchat over which lamps he needed to pick to give his establishment a modern feel while honouring its history. The result is impressive, Louis thinks when he allows himself a pause from humility and it’s all just very  _ him _ , every inch of the place reeking of his influence. 

There’s something deeply satisfying for him to think about Harry making a temporary home of a place Louis curated so carefully. 

“Yes,” Harry acknowledges without explaining himself, “I am.” 

Louis purses his lips, trying to fight off an overwhelming smile. He knows he’s not succeeding very well, knows his eyes are crinkling without permission, giving him away completely. Still, he doesn’t feel self-conscious, never does under Harry’s attention. There’s nothing about the way he’s being looked at right now that makes him want to hide away. Which, for a man who has made his life mission to spend as much time as possible by himself, is no small feat. But there’s something about the way Harry looks at him, there always has been. It’s like he’s really paying attention, like every little tremor of Louis’ face needs to be noted and catalogued, like maybe there will be a test later and Harry needs to know it all. Like maybe he’ll need to remember the specific way Louis giggles down at Clifford when he runs out of the sea at full speed and shakes himself dry, no one safe from him. Like maybe he’ll need to remember the specific way Louis dances in the kitchen while he does the dishes, all bum shaking and without particular talent. Harry always looks at him like he wants every line of Louis’ body tattooed unto his brain, wants to memorise every rise and fall of Louis’ chest so he doesn’t forget. Louis wonders if that’s part of what makes Harry so special, so beloved, if maybe he makes everyone’s blood boil in their veins the way he does Louis’, if he makes them all feel unique and important somehow. Because Louis does feel special when Harry’s eyes stubbornly refuse to move away from his face. 

It’s a silly feeling, perhaps. Inconsequential, surely. And yet. 

Louis licks his lower lip, trying to delay the inevitable, but soon enough he’s unable to help himself and he turns on his side in one movement to face Harry, trapping his leg between both of his. He smiles when their eyes finally meet. 

“There,” Louis teases, “now you can look all you want.” 

Harry doesn’t smile. Instead, he very slowly reaches up to Louis’ cheek, caressing it with his thumb as he slides the rest of his fingers in Louis’ hair. 

“You probably shouldn’t indulge me as much as you do.” It tumbles out of Harry’s mouth like a warning rather than a reproach and Louis finds himself shaking his head before the sentence is fully out. 

“I’ll have you know, I think I indulge you just the right amount,” Louis says seriously, before leaning in to kiss the tip of Harry’s nose, delighting in the way he scrunches it. 

&

The next morning, after waking up tangled in Harry’s bed, Louis’ freezing fingertips chasing warmth on Harry’s belly, they walk Clifford together. He hasn’t gone on a morning jog since Harry’s birthday, but Louis can’t find it in himself to care when he can join Harry in  _ his  _ daily ritual instead. It’s half past seven when they first make their way outside, bundled up in two layers of jumpers under their jackets. The wind is unkind this early in the morning and Louis wrinkles his nose as they start making their way to the village. The sun won’t rise for almost another hour, but the darkness won’t tame Clifford’s enthusiasm as he runs ahead of them on the frozen muddy path that leads to the main road. 

Harry is pensive, silent, the first time he’s been so since they first kissed, and Louis isn’t sure if he should offer more comfort now that they’ve started… whatever this is that they’re doing. If maybe he shouldn’t just let him be as he usually does. When they first woke up, he assumed Harry was only half asleep, non communicative because he hadn’t had a chance to fully wake yet, but as they get closer and closer to the village, it becomes obvious he’s probably having one of those difficult moody days he has sometimes, stuck in his head and his worries. So Louis decides to do as he usually does, decides to walk alongside him silently, ready to offer a hand or a shoulder, should Harry need it. 

When they get to the edge of the village, the red phone box a shadowed figure in the darkness ahead of them, Harry stops walking. 

“I…” he clears his throat. “I know we said we’d get breakfast together and I’d call after, but I think I need to do that first,” he says, pointing towards the booth. 

“Of course,” Louis nods, turning sideways to face him and reaching for his bicep. “The bakery is open so I’ll just go have a tea while I’m waiting.” 

“Is that alright?” Harry asks, a people pleaser if there ever was one, and Louis smiles, shaking his head. 

“It’s perfectly alright,” he says, taking a step forward to kiss Harry, sliding a hand through the hair at the back of his neck while the other squeezes his bicep a little. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, ok,” Harry says, looking down at his feet, smiling a little. Then, he walks over to the phone book and gets inside, giving Louis a final look over his shoulder before grabbing the receiver and digging into his pocket for change.

“Come on doggo,” Louis calls to Clifford, walking past the booth and straight to the bakery. 

He watches the sky change through the bakery’s front window, from complete darkness until it starts spilling oranges and reds across the world as the sun rises slowly, drinking his tea with Clifford resting at his feet. He’s tucked away in a corner of the store, absently going through his family and friend’s Instagrams, liking his sisters’ selfies and roasting his mates’ stupid captions.

At some point, he indulges himself and angles his mug towards the window to grab a picture of it with the sunrise in the background, shamelessly captioning it with lyrics from one of Harry’s songs before posting it. At least, he’ll be the only one to know how absolutely fucking cheesy and smitten he is, Louis figures as he puts his phone back into his pocket before reaching down to pet Clifford. 

Mrs Clark tops up his tea twice while he waits and he’s only halfway through the third cuppa when Harry walks through the door, a vision in Louis’ denim jacket and a white turtleneck. Mrs Clark beams when she sees him and he exchanges a tiny look with Louis before going up to the counter to order breakfast. Louis doesn’t mean to creepily stare, but he can’t help the way his gaze sticks to Harry’s body, observing every micro-shift in his body language to try and figure out if he’s still upset. As it is, he seems much looser than before, his cheeks dimpling honestly when he hands a tenner to Mrs Clark and refuses the change. Louis looks away when Harry turns around, a couple of plates filled with pastries in his hand. 

“No tea?” Louis teases when Harry joins him at the table. 

Harry shrugs, placing one of the plates filled with his favourites in front of Louis’. “Figured you’d probably had some left to share,” he says, sitting down and automatically reaching for Louis’ half full mug. 

“Thief,” Louis teases, grabbing an almond croissant and starting to nibble straight away. 

“You don’t mind,” Harry says confidently, taking another sip and grimacing a little at the bitterness. “Besides it’s probably your fourth or something, not very healthy. I’m just looking out for you.” 

Louis scoffs. “Third, actually,” he says, raising his eyebrows. 

“Did you even eat anything?” Harry asks, shaking his head.

“Would you have bought me that many pastries if you thought I had?” Louis replies knowingly with his mouth half full. 

Harry licks his lower lip, grabbing a banana and pecan muffin from his own plate. “Touch é, ” he replies before taking a huge bite out of it, from top to bottom, eating a third of it in one go. 

Louis lets him chew for a bit before asking the question burning at the tip of his tongue. 

“Good phone call?” 

He can’t help himself. He has to comment on Harry’s obvious mood shift. Before they parted, he assumed Harry would remain quiet most of the day, might even request some alone time, yet here he is, joking along, all smiles.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He takes another sip of tea before giving it back. “Definitely. I had a lot on my mind this morning. My brain was all…” he wiggles his fingers to illustrate his point. “Talking it out helped. I feel great.”  

Louis takes two last large gulps of tea before handing it back. “You keep the rest,” he says, “I’ve had enough already.” 

“I’m not going to argue with that,” Harry laughs, taking the mug again and placing it next to his plate. 

“I’m glad your call helped,” Louis comments, fighting through the awkwardness he’s feeling. “Not that I mind when you’re…” Louis wiggles his fingers back at him in an echo of Harry’s own gesture. Warmth spreads through his chest when Harry smiles back at him, amused. “But, you know… It’s always nice to see those two,” Louis continues softly, reaching across the table to press his thumb right where Harry’s left dimple just appeared. 

“The money-makers,” Harry says, self-deprecatingly. 

Louis shakes his head when he rolls his eyes. “Nah,” he replies, not saying any of the foolish things he’s thinking, like that Harry’s dimples are two commas of happiness etched into his skin, two small pauses of joy that illuminate his face. “Don’t think of them like that.” 

Louis surprises himself by how serious he sounds. His thumb is still stroking Harry’s cheek and he should probably let go now. He doesn’t know how Harry feels about PDA and while the cafe might be empty, Mrs Clark is still behind the counter and she’ll be reporting to everyone else later if she sniffs anything remotely romantic between them. Still, he can’t seem to be able to let go, Harry’s skin too soft to the touch, the gesture somehow comforting to  _ Louis _ .

“I’m just joking,” Harry says, voice a bit raspy.

Louis really wants to kiss him. 

“Right,” he mumbles to himself, finally letting go of Harry’s face, leaning back in his chair. “Of course.” He grabs another pastry without looking, taking a huge bite. “These are really good.” 

Harry nods in agreement, finishing his muffin and laughing when Clifford moves towards him to put his head on his thigh. “Oh come on,” Harry giggles, “that was a muffin. You don’t want a muffin, you goof.” He lets Clifford sniff at his empty hands. 

“He wants your attention,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. Not that he can blame his dog. “He doesn’t care about the muffin. He’s become codependent I think. He likes you more than me, you know,” he adds pointedly, pretending to be offended. 

Harry scoffs. “Well, that is blatantly untrue,” he says in with a dog voice, soft and higher like he’s talking to a child, before pressing a kiss on top of Clifford’s head. “You love your father, don’t you?” he asks Clifford, grinning up at Louis when his dog barks in response. “See.” 

“I know he loves me, that was never in question.” 

“Good. It shouldn’t be.” Harry lifts the mug, taking one, two, three long gulps before putting it down on the table and sliding it away from him. “Nothing like a good cuppa not made to your taste,” he jokes before winking at Louis. 

He looks a little cocky but sweet, the combination an unbearable turn on. Louis really has been powerless all along, strung along for the ride, unable to stop the way his stomach clenches and his heart swells whenever Harry does something cute. But, instead of focusing on the silly butterflies in his belly, Louis teases Harry right back. 

“I mean, you’re the one who stole it, you knew exactly what you were getting into. If you wanted something disgustingly sweet you could have bought your own tea.”

Harry lets out a long-suffering sigh before tilting his head slightly. “I suppose,” he agrees half-heartedly, before looking sincere. “Thanks for sharing.” 

Louis shrugs him off. “No problem. Thanks for buying me pastries.” 

Harry smirks. “No problem.” 

They take their time eating the rest of their breakfast, going through the absurd amount of pastries Harry purchased relatively quickly. Soon enough, there’s nothing but crumbs left in their respective plates and Louis almost can’t believe the amount of food he just ate. They leave just as the bakery gets busy, waving to almost half the village on their way out, everyone enthusiastic to see them and eager to have a chat. Louis dodges a few “how’s it going?” by nodding, smiling and giving dorky thumbs up until they’re finally back on the streets. Once they’ve got some privacy, Harry laughs a little. 

“Gotta love how everyone is in everyone’s business,” he comments, obviously referring to the way people started gossiping with each other as soon as someone new entered the coffee shop, the noise level rising with each new arrival. 

“Yes, it’s delightful,” Louis says, playing along sarcastically. “Actually,” he amends as they walk past the phone box and out of the village, “during the touristy season, the gossip is pretty fantastic! I always end up knowing as soon as someone new arrives on the island. Super useful when people show up without reservations. Of course, all the different accommodations on the island are rarely fully sold out so random people showing up isn’t often an issue. But the neighbours still keep track of that kind of stuff. It’s pretty useful, you know?” 

Harry’s eyes widen. “Wait,” he says, no longer walking and it takes Louis a few seconds to realise it, meaning he has to jog back to where Harry is standing, whistling at Clifford not to stray too far. “Does that mean you knew I was coming? That day I was waiting for you at the b&b? Did the village gossip machine warn you?” 

At that, Louis frowns, his confusion reawakened by Harry mentioning it. “Actually,” he says, one index in the air, “that reminds me… No. No one fucking saw you coming in. No one knew where you came from. That was my first clue something weird was going on by the way, because literally I  _ always  _ know when someone new sets foot on the island. Yet there you were, tall weirdo pacing in front of my windows and not a single warning text message on my phone.” 

Harry smiles, a bit embarrassed. “Did you really think I was a weirdo?” he asks, reaching for the hand Louis still has up in the air, bringing it down and tangling their fingers together. 

They start walking again, hand in hand, a lot less distance between their bodies now that they’re mostly out of sight. 

“Of course not,” Louis replies honestly, risking a side glance, catching the way Harry’s face looks pleased for a second. “But I was very intrigued. And to be honest, I still am. How did you manage it?” 

“It’s nothing spectacular, honestly. Just a private boat hire?” 

“But how did nobody see you?” Louis asks, pushing a little. “I mean, I know the port isn’t usually extremely busy, unless we’re expecting a delivery of goods, or people. Sometimes both,” Louis explains, “but it’s rarely completely deserted. 

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he pouts. “No one was there. I had instructions from google map on how to get to the lighthouse so I just… walked there. The woman who owned the boat left straight away. We were there less than ten minutes, s’probably just a coincidence that everyone missed us. Though it did work to my advantage,” Harry admits.

“You didn’t want to be seen,” Louis guesses. 

Harry shrugs again, his fingers tightening around Louis’. “I didn’t necessarily expect people  _ here _ to recognise me, but… it was always a risk. It wasn’t really a master plan to avoid them on purpose, but I guess I did hope I was going to arrive relatively unnoticed.”

“Well, things sure worked out in your favour.” 

“For sure,” Harry agrees. “I mean, hot hotelier who doesn’t know who I am and has a cute dog? That’s the dream.” 

Louis laughs for a second, before frowning, a little puzzled. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not, to be honest,” he admits sheepishly, still buzzing at the way Harry called him  _ hot.  _

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Harry replies. He leans down a little, breath tickling Louis’ ear, sending shivers down his spine before adding: “your dog is really cute.” 

Louis bursts into laughter, shoving Harry away from him in retaliation. “Oh, shut up!” he exclaims while Harry starts cackling, that high squeaky laugh that comes out of his mouth sometimes and Louis can never get enough of. It always sounds like it shouldn’t come out of Harry’s body, like he’s surprised by it when it tumbles out of him, and it’s a little ugly, a little imperfect. Louis wants to swallow it. 

There’s no one around so Louis completely defeats the purpose of pushing Harry away by grabbing him forcefully. Their bodies collide and Louis shifts a little to align their mouths, his fingers tight on Harry’s shoulders as he finally kisses him. Harry gasps a little, clearly surprised, before kissing back. 

“Okay,” Harry whispers against Louis’ lips when they separate. He pecks him once, twice, before speaking again. “Wanna keep walking a bit?” he asks, gesturing towards the small path that goes down to the beach. 

The lighthouse is in sight, finally, and Louis is tempted to just drag him back inside, push him against the front door and unwrap him like a present, taking off his turtleneck and leave a mark on the unveiled skin, ravishing him right there, barely past the threshold.

“Yeah, alright,” Louis says, “let’s keep walking.” 

The day is young and they’ve got time. They’ve got a bit of time. If Louis thinks it often enough, it might make it true. 

&

When they reach the beach, Clifford runs straight for the water, getting in and out in a second, barking in what Louis chooses to interpret as displeasure at the temperature. Harry laughs, grabbing a discarded piece of wood and throwing it powerfully ahead. Clifford takes the bait and runs for it, tail wagging excitedly, water-related upset long forgotten. 

“How cold do you think it is?” Harry asks, eyes squinting at the horizon, the way the sea stretches and stretches, the strength of the waves. 

“Pretty fucking cold,” Louis chuckles, remembering. “A few years ago, when I couldn’t go back home for the holidays, some of the folks decided we should do our own version of The Loony Dook for Hogmanay and it was absolute torture.” 

Harry’s face twists in confusion. “Sorry, the what?” he asks. 

“Hogmanay’s New Years Eve in Scotland,” Louis explains. 

Harry rolls his eyes, bending down to grab the stick from Clifford’s mouth. “Good boy,” he whispers before throwing it again. “I know that!” he says for Louis’ benefit. “I mean the…. Loony thing?”

“Oh! It’s an event in Fife. On the first day of the year, people throw themselves in the freezing waters. S’mostly for charity, but also… you know… It’s like you were saying, water is cleansing and it’s a new beginning and everything.”

Harry gives him a disbelieving look, his mouth wide open. “And you didn’t think to tell me about it!” he squeaks. “We could have done it this year!” 

Louis grimaces, shivering at the mere memory of the freezing water, the way it stabs like knives and takes over everything. “Oh, I am  _ never _ doing that again,” he scoffs. “It was…” He shivers exaggeratedly. “I didn’t know human beings could be that cold. It was like I was never going to be warm again. I mean, it was fun too, obviously,” he adds, mouths turning up at the memory. 

Only half the village had stayed on Fair Isle for the holidays that year, all of them piling into Louis’ big dining room on his birthday to share dishes everyone had brought especially, popping crackers and rallying around each other to make sure it was a memorable season. Louis had gotten drunk on Mrs Reid’s punch and had played the piano until two in the morning while everyone danced. For Hogmanay, Mr Drummond had made a huge bonfire on the beach and most of them had spent the entire night outside celebrating, watching the sunrise still drunk before running into the sea fully clothed under the first few rays of sunshine. Louis had been cold, for sure, but it had felt good to feel part of something. 

“I don’t think anyone did it this year though,” he adds, looking pensively at the waves. “I mean, maybe Mr Drummond. He loves his Scottish traditions.” 

When Louis turns to face Harry again, there’s a determined look on his face. 

“I’m gonna do it,” he declares, taking Louis’ denim jacket off and handing it to him before he can protest. Suddenly, Louis just has an armful of clothes and Harry is bending down to untie his shoes.

“I’m sorry, you’re doing what now?” 

“Hogmanay,” Harry says like that makes any sort of sense. He’s putting both of his wool socks inside of his shoes, making sure no sand gets into them. Then, he grabs the trainers and puts them in Louis’ arms too, right on top of the denim jacket. “The loony thing,” he adds, giving Louis a slightly manic grin. “I’m doing it.” 

Then, unbelievably, he starts walking towards the water. 

“It’s not Hogmanay,” Louis shouts after him. “Come on, don’t be stupid, it’s bloody freezing!” 

Harry shakes his head. “New beginnings,” he calls back over his shoulder, taking his white jumper off and throwing it blindly in Louis’ direction. It falls in the wet sand and Louis runs to grab it before it stains too badly. “I’m cleansing myself!” Harry yells, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and his jeans, arms spread out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Louis says under his breath as he watches Harry run into the water. 

Clifford looks up at him at the whisper, dropping the branch at his feet. 

“This is… truly… the dumbest thing I’ve seen someone do in a long time,” Louis says to his dog, scoffing when Clifford suddenly takes off, running after Harry straight into the water. 

Harry emerges from the surface with a shout, half triumphant, half freaked out. “Bloody fucking hell!” he yells, breathing like he’s about to give birth, one hand pushing his wet hair off his face. 

“I can’t believe I had sex with him,” Louis says to himself, watching as Harry cheers again, then starts running out of the water, various profanities stumbling out of his mouth. 

He’s rubbing his naked arms as he runs towards Louis and it takes him a moment to realise he’s not slowing down. 

“Don’t you dare,” Louis calls warningly, taking a step back just as Harry’s body forcefully collides with his in a clumsily hug, both of them tumbling down onto the beach as Louis lets go of Harry’s clothes. 

“I’m cold,” Harry whines in Louis’ neck, trying to hide his icy, wet face into Louis’ skin. The entire length of his soaked body is pressing against Louis’, water seeping into his dry clothes. 

“Get off of me,” Louis squirms, trying to put distance between their bodies, but he’s pinned down on the beach. 

Harry whines again, trying to reach under Louis’ jumper, making the muscles of his stomach tighten when his fingers settle on it, chasing the warmth of his body. 

“Fuck,” Louis hisses at the contact. 

“I’m cold,” Harry repeats in a sad petulant voice and he’s actually shivering.

“Well, whose fault is that?” Louis asks, biting, but he still wraps his arms around Harry’s body and presses a kiss on his temple. 

“Warm me up,” Harry begs with a small laugh before shrieking when Clifford joins them and starts shaking himself dry, sending drops of water everywhere.

At that, Louis starts laughing. And can’t stop. 

“It’s not funny,” Harry says, still squirming, though he’s clearly laughing too. 

“Oh it really is,” Louis says, voice high pitched as he tries to control himself. 

“Louiiiiiiis,” Harry whines, grabbing the skin of Louis’ hips tightly and giving his neck a tiny bite, barely a nimble, to scold him. 

It probably shouldn’t turn Louis on and he finds himself sliding his hands into the wet back pockets of Harry’s jeans to stop him from squirming against him. There are goosebumps all over Harry’s naked arms, his wet hair tickling Louis’ face, under his jaw, his neck, the weight of him solid and comforting over Louis’ body. 

Louis sighs, before whispering: “ Come on, get off me.” He jostles Harry’s body a little when he refuses to move. “H, come on. I don’t want you to catch your death or something… Imagine the scandal,” he jokes. “Pop star’s body found on a remote island, hot hotelier lead suspect…”

Harry snorts, but he finally gets up, wrapping his arms around himself as soon as he’s standing. “I could have planned this better,” he admits, teeth clattering. 

“You think?” Louis says sarcastically, looking down at Harry’s naked feet, at the sand and the pieces of seaweed sticking to them. “Here,” he adds, touching the bottom of Harry’s tank top, watching the way his muscles expand through the now transparent cloth as he breathes deeply in and now, “take this off.” 

“I don’t think that’s gonna help,” Harry shivers. “But I like your enthusiasm,” he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Louis rolls his eyes, walking past Harry to grab the clothing he’s discarded. He hands him the white turtleneck. “Putting this on instead will help. Not much we can do about the bottom until we get home, but that’ll keep you warm a little at least.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, eyes widening. “Right,” he agrees, taking the tank top off easily despite the way it clings to his skin. 

Louis barely lets himself be distracted by Harry’s skin, by its pallor contrasted with the black of his tattoos, the way the butterfly on his stomach seems to be moving every time Harry breathes, the way drops of water are sliding down his collarbones, over the gorgeous swallows inked there. 

Harry hands him the drenched tank top and takes the jumper, putting it on immediately. Then, Louis bends down to retrieve his shoes, watching as Harry tries to get as much sand off his toes before putting both the socks and the vans on. Finally, Louis helps him put the denim jacket back on, holding it open for Harry to slide inside, squeezing the back of his shoulders once he’s done. 

“Better?” Louis asks into Harry’s ear before kissing the delicate skin underneath. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice raspy. “A little.” He waits a second before admitting: “Still kinda freezing, to be honest” with a small sheepish laugh. 

“Yes, well, that’s what happens when someone jumps into the sea in the middle of winter,” Louis says, turning Harry around so they’re facing each other, starting to button up the denim jacket for him. 

“No regrets,” Harry says sincerely and when Louis looks away from the task at hand, his green eyes are sparkling with something new and there’s a healthy flush on the skin of his cheeks. He’s smiling widely despite still shaking from the cold. 

“Wanna head back home?” Louis asks, only realising too late the way he’s slipped up, the way he called the lighthouse  _ home _ , the way he implied it’s Harry’s too. His heart jumps in his throat, a painful throb. 

Harry doesn’t really react, doesn’t seem to think there’s anything strange to what Louis just said. He just smiles and nods, grabbing Louis’ hand as they walked back up the cliffs, Clifford following closely behind. 

Oh, how Louis wishes that were true, that it was that simple. That Harry could call this place home like he does. 

&

Harry is properly shivering by the time they walk through the threshold. 

“Okay, this isn’t fun anymore,” he says and it’s the lack of whining and exaggerated sadness that clues Louis in that he’s sincerely uncomfortable now. 

Louis takes his coat off, throwing it on the counter carelessly before turning around to face Harry. He wraps him into a big hug, squeezing his body tight and comforting. “You’re a damn fool, Harry Styles,” he says, gently mocking, before letting go. 

Harry, not one to be upstaged easily, dimples and replies devastatingly: “Fool for you.” 

Louis rolls his eyes to hide the way it makes him blush, bending down to take off his trainers. Harry does the same before taking his jacket off and putting it next to Louis’ on the reception desk.

“I think I’ll go take shower now,” he declares, passing a hand through his wet hair and grimacing. 

Except Louis shakes his head, reaching over the reception desk to grab the specific key he needs, putting it safely in his pocket.

“No, you won’t,” he says, reaching for Harry’s hand and dragging him upstairs. 

“But I’m cold,” Harry whines as he climbs the stairs behind him. “I’m gonna be sick, Lou.” 

“No, you won’t,” Louis repeats, rolling his eyes where Harry can’t see him. 

Once they reach the first floor, Louis walks past Harry’s bedroom, ignoring the door entirely. 

“But –” Harry says, sounding confused as he stops in front of his bedroom. 

“Come on,” Louis insists, unlocking one of the rooms on the other side of the corridor, a small thing without a particularly nice view.

The double bed stands proud in the middle of the room, the duvet a rich scarlet that stands out. The cream wallpaper has a subtle swirl textured pattern, muted, but elegant. There’s not much space for furniture so the room is mostly empty apart for a slim bedside table on the right. There’s a small closet that doesn’t allow much space for clothes and a door that leads to the ensuite, the only true selling point of this specific room. 

It’s the only one in the entire Bed & Breakfast with a bath, making it quite a popular choice amongst guests. Louis only uses it when the b&b is empty of course but, once in a while, he enjoys a nice soak, putting relaxing music or a podcast on as he takes his time in the warm water.

Louis doesn’t look behind him as he walks into the bedroom and goes straight for the bathroom, leaving the door wide open for Harry to follow. He turns the hot water tap on, putting his hand underneath as he waits for it to warm up. When he looks up, Harry is leaning into the doorway. 

“Oh,” he whispers. “I forgot this one has a bath.” 

“It’ll be much nicer than a shower,” Louis replies, turning the cold tap on only a little to make sure the water isn’t scalding. Once he’s satisfied with the temperature, he puts the plug in. 

When he gets back up, Harry is still standing frozen in the doorway. 

“Well, go on then,” Louis says, voice a bit stern as he moves away from the tub and towards the window. He hastily closes the curtains, leaving them in partial darkness, the only light coming into the room from the door blocked by Harry’s unmoving body. 

When he pivots to face Harry again, Louis can’t help a soft smile, seeing the way Harry still stands uncertain in the doorway. He hasn’t moved at all since he arrived, one leg crossed over the other with his hip leaning against the wall.

“You’re going to stand there looking at me all day?” he teases. “I thought you were cold.” Louis says it as he walks towards Harry, grabbing his arm and dragging fully into the bathroom. 

He starts walking backwards, with his fingers gripping Harry’s jumper until they reach the edge of the tub. There’s nothing but the sound of the water pouring and their breathing echoing in the bathroom. Louis smiles, a bit teasing, a bit cocky, and he takes one step forward, until they’re only a breath apart, sliding his hands under Harry’s jumper, smile turning into a smirk when he shivers at the touch. Louis licks his lower lip, his eyes never leaving Harry’s as he pushes the fabric up, up, up. He helps him take it off completely, throwing it carelessly over his shoulder onto the black and white tiles. They stare at each other for a few seconds, goosebumps erupting all over Harry’s flesh and Louis looks down, the tip of his index caressing Harry’s butterfly and down, down, down, the muscles of his stomach tightening. When he reaches the button of his jeans, Louis wastes no time unfastening it and pulling the zipper down. Harry swears under his breath when Louis gets to his knees, but all he does is help him out of the wet jeans, struggling a little to get them down Harry’s thighs where they cling. Then, Louis reaches for the waistband of Harry’s pants, finally undressing him completely. Without even a glance to where Harry is getting aroused, Louis gets up and turns back to the tub, turning both taps off and putting a finger into water to test the temperature one last time. 

“There we are,” Louis says when he faces Harry again, chuckling a little when he sees the way he’s biting his lower lip, pupils dilated. “Well? Are you getting in?” he demands. “I thought you were freezing." 

Harry frowns, but nods, climbing over the tub and slowly sinking in. “It’s not very nice, you know,” he says as he lowers his shoulders into the water, his back resting against the porcelain. “To work me up like that and leave me.” 

“Poor little pop star,” Louis whispers, leaning down over the tub to kiss Harry a bit rougher than he should, thumb digging into his jaw as he takes what he wants, biting Harry’s lower lip for good measure at the end. “It must be hard not to get what you want every second of every day.”

“That’s one word for it,” Harry says matter-of-factly, raising one eyebrow with smugness and Louis wants wants wants  _ so much _ . “Come in,” he adds against Louis’ lips, not letting him move away. “Please.” 

“Nahh,” Louis replies. “Just have a good soak, alright? I’ll be back later.” He kisses Harry’s nose, then leans away. 

“Louuuuu!” 

But Louis ignores his pleading in favour of looking under the sink, rummaging through loo rolls, disinfectants and knick-knacks until he finds a candle and some matches, buried deep underneath it all. He smiles to himself, lighting the candle before carefully placing it on top of the toilet. Then he grabs his phone from his back pocket, thumbing through his Spotify account for a playlist Harry made a few months ago titled “songs that feel like silence”. The first time Louis read that title, he mostly chuckled, not understanding what it could possibly mean. But now that he knows Harry the way he does, Louis knows Harry cherishes the quiet the way only someone who doesn’t get enough of it does. That those songs are of great comfort to him. That those songs are special.

“There you go,” Louis whispers, mostly to himself. “Now you can relax,” he tells Harry, not waiting for a reply before leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind him. 

He goes downstairs quickly, grabbing two of his fluffiest towels and what he thinks is the script to a play before running back up. 

“Well, well, well,” Louis says teasingly when he walks back into the room, eyes glued to where Harry is slowly touching himself. “I was going to offer to read for you,” he says, showing Harry the book, “but I guess you’re a bit busy.” 

Harry blinks a bit sleepily at him, his skin flushed, lips parted. “I got bored without you,” he says, voice even though he never stops moving his hand. 

“Should I leave you to it?” Louis jokes as he’s dropping both towels on the floor, leaving the play next to the tub, not too far out of reach. 

He starts taking his sweatpants off, not giving Harry a chance to reply, enjoying the way his eyes follow the movement carefully, like he’d rather die than miss a second of this. Next, Louis takes both of his jumpers off at the same time, shivering a little when the cold air hits his exposed skin. Harry makes a noise of appreciation, low in his throat, something between a hum and a moan, and Louis feels so powerful, so seen. In a way, he never has before. It’s a rush that should feel scary perhaps, but he can’t feel anything beyond the pounding of his heart, beyond this moment now. He drops his boxer to the floor, stepping out of them and into the tub straight away. Harry leans up to meet his mouth when Louis lowers himself on his lap. He shivers a little when a wet hand slides up his back to grab his neck, Harry tilting his head a little as they kiss. 

After, once they’ve washed and changed the bath water, Harry leans back against Louis’ chest, listening to his dramatic reading of the play: some dark comedy about a group of gangsters in Soho in the fifties that has Harry in stitches. Louis does the voices, one elbow leaning against the tub as he holds the book up, his other hand spread on Harry’s lower belly. He can feel it in his entire body when he makes Harry laugh, a flash of satisfaction throbbing in his chest every single time. They waste most of the morning naked, staying in the bath long after the water has gone lukewarm at best, laughing and kissing. When the play turns serious, and then tragic, Harry gasps, so enthralled, so in the moment, and Louis wants to bottle it. Louis wants time to stop. If he had to pick a moment to stay in forever, it’d be now. Just the two of them. No one’s expectations hanging over Harry’s shoulders. Just Louis’ body wrapped around him, shielding him as best he can. Just the two of them being goofy, having fun. 

But soon enough, the play ends, the bath water turns freezing, and they get hungry. 

Louis dries himself quickly, putting his sweatpants and only one of his jumpers back on. Then, he helps Harry out of the bath, wrapping him in a fluffy towel and letting him use the other to make a towel turban around his hair, even though it’s not long enough to require it. They separate in the corridor, Harry heading into his room to get dressed, his wet clothes from before bundled up in his arms while Louis goes downstairs to feed Clifford with a guilty conscience. He gives his dog extra treats for being so patient when Louis forgot about him, before moving onto lunch for himself and Harry. 

That afternoon, the weather turns sour in an instant. The sky darkens dramatically before it starts raining the way it only can in Scotland: heavy and apocalyptic. In the span between two breaths, it suddenly feels like it will never be sunny again, wind whooshing around them as they sit on the bench in the lantern room, faces pressed against the windows as they watch the storm rise. They intertwine their fingers as the waves crash against the cliffs, listening to the pitter-patter of rain against the windows. 

“God it makes you feel... I don’t know, powerless. Unimportant.” Harry whispers against the glass at some point and he sounds thankful for it. 

Eventually, their attention shifts away from the storm and Harry starts playing the guitar for Louis. Mostly covers of songs he loves, but new melodies too, stuff he’s had stuck in his head for days, stuff he’s still writing lyrics for, even fully completed songs. Louis listens with a smile on his face and sings along when Harry gets goofy like he’s on stage and starts saying things like “you sing!!” while he points a non-existent microphone at Louis.

They have fun. 


	9. Chapter 9

A few days later, they’re cuddling in Harry’s big bed. The sun just started setting and they’ve wasted almost all day watching romcoms on Louis’ laptop, Harry cheering goofily in the most unbearably romantic parts, even tearing up once or twice at heartfelt speeches, trying to hide his blotchy face in Louis’ shoulder, cheeks red with embarrassment. 

“What’s like… the most romantic thing anyone’s done for you?” Harry asks randomly when the end credits to The Notebook are almost over. His voice is still a bit wobbly, a result of the amount of crying he’s been doing since Allie started remembering. 

He’s still staring right at the laptop when he asks the question, his whole body resting on Louis’, the long lean weight of him comfortable. They’re both leaning on the headboard, Louis propped up with multiple pillows and Harry propped up on Louis.

Louis, who was stroking down Harry’s arms comfortingly, stops moving. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry says. “I was just curious.” 

“I don’t know actually,” Louis replies honestly, trying to remember. Truth be told, he’s been alone for a long time. It’s a part of the lifestyle he chose after all, and beyond some one night stands once in a while when he’s on the mainland, Louis has been pretty celibate since he moved to Fair Isle. His latest boyfriend dates back to his university days and romantic gestures weren’t exactly on Brian’s mind. 

“Oh,” Harry says.

“I mean… Honestly? My lifestyle doesn’t exactly allow for a lot of romance… As you can imagine,” he says with a laugh, trying not to feel embarrassed. Louis is generally happy with what he’s got, but he knows how most people feel about it. 

“Right,” Harry agrees, reaching for Louis’ left hand. He starts playing with his fingers, tracing them with his index softly, up and down until he reaches the wrist then back again.

“My last boyfriend was back when I was at uni. We were together for half of the first year and almost all of the second. But I was definitely the romantic one out of the two of us. Cooking awful meals because I wasn’t good at it yet and buying flowers and all of that shit. Surprise gifts and everything. They were more my things than Brian’s. On the flip side, I could probably answer what’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever done more easily…” 

Harry stops stroking his fingers at that. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

He sounds genuinely contrite and Louis can’t help the small giggle that escapes his mouth.

“What are you apologising for?” Louis asks against Harry’s skin, kissing the place where his neck meets his shoulder, exposed by his stretched out tee. “S’no big deal. I’m not suffering from it. I don’t feel like I’m missing out.” 

Harry hums as he starts to caress Louis’ hand again. “You deserve nice romantic gestures,” he declares. 

Louis shivers, uncertain if it’s Harry’s words, or his touch, that’s affecting him this way. 

“Well, you cooked breakfast for me,” he says, a bit breathless. “That was… that was nice. No one had ever done that for me before.” 

“No one?” Harry exclaims, tangling their fingers together. “Really?”

“Well, my mum… sometimes my little siblings, but I don’t think that counts in this context,” Louis jokes.

“Alright, I’m definitely cooking you breakfast again tomorrow,” Harry declares with a huff, sounding really offended. “Actually, I’m cooking you breakfast all week. You can’t protest,” he adds just as Louis opens his mouth from behind him. “Don’t even try.” 

Louis feels himself flush a little. “You don’t have to,” he says sheepishly, but Harry only huffs again. 

He raises their tangled hands to his mouth, kissing the top of Louis’, his breath against Louis’ skin warm, his lips soft. 

“I want to,” Harry insists, snuggling a little more comfortably against Louis. 

“How about you?”

“Mmmmh?” 

Louis chuckles. “What’s the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you?”

Louis watches as Harry’ cheeks redden. 

“Mmmm, I don’t know,” he lies blatantly.

“Oh, you do. Spill,” Louis insists, digging the fingers of his free hand into Harry’s waist.

“I don’t!” Harry shrieks, trying to twist away.

“Come on,” Louis says, continuing relentlessly to tickle Harry’s side. “Pretty famous boy like you? Someone must have done something dead nice!” 

“I guess,” Harry says between bursts of laughter, “I guess some famous popstar might have written a song about me.” 

“Ooooh,” Louis says, voice too high-pitched to be sincere. He’s not jealous, he tries to convince himself immediately as he starts feeling like a hand is grabbing his guts and  _ twisting _ . “Which one?” 

“Nobody important,” Harry says. “I thought it was the most romantic shit ever at the time, but the relationship ended really badly not too long after and his song was number one for a really long time. Felt a bit manipulative afterwards, you know? One of the few times I was actually glad I wasn’t out, so no one could officially connect it to me, to be honest.” 

“Oh,” Louis says, jealousy switching to anger in an instant. “I’m sorry. I was gonna say having a song written about you must be nice but that’s… that sounds awful.” 

Louis is pretty sure that’s not the gesture that had Harry blushing so prettily, but it’s alright. He can keep his secret. 

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, I mean. I still think writing a song for someone is probably the most romantic thing I could ever do, but… I don’t know that I want songs written about me anymore. One of my beards wrote a lot of them too, so it’s like… I don’t know. Big gestures, public gestures… they’ve lost meanings for me. I don’t want someone to romance me that way.” 

“I understand,” Louis replies. He thinks he does at least. It all sounds awful, to be honest, and it makes him so angry, so so so angry, to think that Harry had to go through all of that. Has to go through all that. 

“I like small things,” Harry whispers. He pauses, squeezing Louis’ hand. “You reading to me is nice,” he admits, the red of his cheeks deepening. 

_ Oh, _ Louis thinks. “I can do that right now, if you want,” he offers, low in Harry’s ear, loving the way it makes him shiver. “I love doing that for you,” he says, feeling vulnerable at the admission. 

But Harry shakes his head. “No,” he says, closing his eyes. “I’m too comfy, don’t want to move.” 

“Alright,” Louis agrees, kissing his temple. “We won’t.”

&

Harry ambushes Louis after his morning jog three days later when he’s trying to sneak back into the cottage unseen, hoping to hop into the shower before he’s attacked by more breakfast. Harry, true to his word, has been cooking for him every morning since they’ve discussed romantic gestures, a mixture of his stubbornness and sweetness infused in every item included in the meals. 

Louis is busy very slowly closing the front door to make sure it doesn’t creak and alert Harry in the kitchen when he almost has a heart attack. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry calls from behind him and Louis gasps, startling as he turns around to face the empty reception desk.

“What the hell!” Louis says, a hand pressed to his chest. His heart is beating twice as fast as normal and Harry is still nowhere in sight. 

“You were trying to run off, weren’t you?” Harry says, emerging from behind the counter, head appearing first, then his torso. 

Louis frowns, shaking his head in disbelief. Clifford is looking silently between them, clearly not having understood yet that they’ve stopped playing the quiet game.

“Were you sitting on the floor?” Louis asks, passing a hand through his hair. It’s a bit wet with sweat and fringe sticking up in the front where he’s tousled it. 

“Yes,” Harry replies like it’s a completely normal thing to say, folding his arms across his chest in what Louis suspects is an attempt to appear authoritative and in charge. He’s still wearing what he wore to bed though; a vintage Fleetwood Mac tee that’s more holes than fabric at his point and a pair of Louis’ sweatpants that’s just a tiny bit too short on him, exposing his tattooed ankles. He’s hiding behind the counter so Louis can’t see the ankles, but he knows they’re there. Hard to look very intimidating in that kind of adorable outfit, what with his hair tangled and messy too. 

Louis shakes his head, a bit disbelieving. “Of course,” he mumbles to himself, unzipping his yellow raincoat. Thankfully, the grey skies decided to spare him during his run, but he didn’t feel like going in unprepared that morning. “Of course, you were sitting on the floor waiting for me,” he adds, taking the jacket off and putting it on the counter. “May I ask why?” Louis says, both hands pressed on the counter on each side of his jacket. It takes everything in him not to roll his eyes. Or smile. He knows why, of course, and it’s ridiculous. 

“Breakfast?” Harry offers instead of answering, putting a plate of waffles and assorted fruits right next to Louis’ hand on the reception desk. 

Louis shakes his head, taking a step back into the corridor. “I’ve told you,” he laughs, as he starts to walk away from reception and towards the annexe, “you really don’t have to make me breakfast every day. I didn’t expect you to actually do it.” 

“Well,” Harry grins, walking around the counter to follow after him, “that was your mistake. You gotta deal with homemade breakfast now.” 

“Those are frozen waffles,” Louis deadpans, pointing at the plate still sitting on the reception desk. He’s walking backwards in the corridor, a flirty tilt to his steps, silently daring Harry to come closer. 

Harry takes the bait, of course, following him with a determined frown on his face. “Yes,” he replies, reaching for Louis’ waist, angling his body towards the wall and pushing him against it. “I heated them with a lot of care. Not to mention I cut up all those fruits just for you.” 

“Wasn’t necessary though, was it? You made breakfast yesterday. And the day before. I’d say that’s plenty. My romantic gestures quota is all filled up now. You can rest Mr Suitor,” Louis teases.

“Excuse you, I made you a promise. Breakfast every day this week. Not just the first two days and then I give up. It was breakfast every day that I said. I’m sticking to it. Now go back to reception and eat your frozen waffles,” Harry orders jokingly, pointing towards the plate before leaning to kiss Louis. 

“No,” Louis says, moving his head out of the way. “I’m super gross. I need a shower. I’m all… sweaty. Disgusting.”

Harry gasps in fake outrage. “Did you get sweaty on a run?!” he asks dramatically, cupping Louis’ cheeks with both hands. “Oh my god, I hadn’t noticed,” he says before kissing the laugh off Louis’ face. Once he’s satisfied, he lets go of Louis’ face before smirking. “Come, eat your waffles.” 

&

On Friday night, Harry shows up to join Louis on top of the tower with a scrabble box tucked under his arm and two mugs of tea. 

“Where did you find that?” Louis asks from the bench, putting his novel down to make wiggly fingers at Harry, desperate for his cuppa.

Harry gives it to him straight away and Louis inhales a few gulps before paying any attention to the conversation again. When he emerges, Harry is setting his own mug on the chest before putting the Scrabble box right next to it. 

“Basement,” he replies and Louis sort of vaguely remembers a few games at the bottom of a pile of rubbish tucked away in a corner somewhere down there. “Wanna play?”  

Louis hums. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan of board games.” 

“What? Doesn’t fit with my popstar image?” Harry says sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he settles down on the floor, wiggling a little to find a comfortable position. He settles with one leg stretched in front of him and the other bent so he can drape his arm casually on it.

“Meh,” Louis squeaks with a shrug. “Want a cushion?” he offers and when Harry shakes his head no, Louis keeps it for himself, getting down from the bench to sit in front of Harry and the game. 

“Plot twist, I’m actually a massive nerd,” Harry declares as he opens the box and takes out a bag of letters. 

Louis laughs. “I know  _ that _ !” 

“Well, why is it such a surprise then? I love words. This game is awesome.” 

Louis smirks. “Oh is it? Is it  _ awesome _ ?” he teases, giving the word a light American tilt, mimicking the way Harry’s accent switched a little at the end there. 

“Shut up!” Harry replies, making it extra British. He’s carefully arranging the board on the table now, preparing the game with careful attention. 

“You know I never actually agreed to play with you, right?” 

“You don’t want to?” Harry looks like a puppy who's been kicked too many times, green eyes widening with sadness, his bottom lip sticking out in a dramatic pout. 

Louis laughs. “No,” he says, rolling his eyes a little. “I definitely want to. I’m just saying I never technically agreed is all.”

Harry shrugs. “You don’t have to,” he says, imitating Louis a little. “You can keep reading your book, I’ll play against myself. I don’t mind.”

“You’re that desperate to play Scrabble that you’d play against yourself?” Louis asks. He likes the game enough, but he can’t imagine wanting to play that badly. He shakes his head, then he reaches for the bag of letters, shaking it for a second before plunging into it to grab his. “That’s so sad, sweetheart.” 

Harry wrinkles his nose. “I used to do it on the road!” he argues, like that makes it make more sense. 

“Oh my god,” Louis widens his eyes. “Just download Words with Friends or some shit. Play against a computer-generated adversary. Anything but that.” 

“S’not the same,” Harry says with a pout, grabbing the bag when Louis hands it to him. “I like placing the letters.”

Louis has to bite down on his lower lip to stop himself from grinning. Harry says it so seriously too, like he means every word and Louis just wants to reach across the chest to kiss his stupid face off. Or pinch his cheeks. Or both. He’s so cute. God, no wonder people all around the world go crazy for him. 

“You like placing the letters,” Louis repeats after him, trying to sound judgemental, but he knows it comes across as a mixture of fondly exasperated and straight up enamoured. 

“Yeah,” Harry insists with a casual shrug. “And I like posting pictures of the games on Instagram afterwards. A screenshot just isn’t the same. It’s not… It’s not as artistic as a proper photo and –”

“I’m sorry,” Louis interrupts, “how many Instagram followers do you have?” 

Harry looks caught, eyes wide and cheeks a bit red. “Hum. I don’t know?” He reaches up to scratch his right cheek before grimacing, a little embarrassed. “A few millions at least?” 

Louis blinks a few times without saying anything. 

“Lou?” 

“There’s a few million people who love your music and follow you on IG and the thing you recompense them with is pictures of your scrabble boards on tour. Of the games you’ve played with yourself.” 

Harry is quick to defend himself.

“Well, they don’t know  _ that _ ! And sometimes I get one of my backing band members to play with me. And sometimes it’s pictures of ping pong games and that’s dynamic and has a lot more interesting composition options and –” 

“It’s even worse than I feared,” Louis comments, mostly to himself. “You really really are a nerd.” 

At that, Harry laughs. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying!” Slowly, his smile starts slipping. “Do you want to know the truth?” he asks, a bit timidly, voice lower as he carefully rearranges his letters in front of him without looking at Louis. 

“Of course,” Louis says. “Always.” 

Harry's lips turn up. 

“I mostly played when I was homesick on tour,” he admits, looking up at Louis from under his eyelashes, like he’s some sort of damsel in a period piece shyly admitting family secrets to her paramour. The comparison is ridiculous and Louis knows that, but he can’t help his brain, can’t help the way he wants to reach across the table to touch Harry’s cheeks, to kiss his eyelids softly. 

Harry looks away again and the weird spell is broken. 

“We used to play a lot as a family. Me, my mum and my sister. It was kind of an after homework treat, you know? Not really a tradition, but almost. It continued well into my teens. Up until my sister left for uni, really. As you can imagine I was really cool. We still do it when Gemma and I are both home. Playing by myself wasn’t the same, but it helped calm me down on tour when I was anxious. Which was pretty much all the time, to be honest. It’s the focus it requires, I think? I just lost myself in the letters and the words. It helped.” 

“Are you homesick now?” Louis can’t help but ask. It’s selfish but he’s only got a few weeks left with Harry. The thought of him wanting to go before he’s meant to leaves a bitter aftertaste in the back of Louis’ mouth, like it’s full of ash and he’s choking on it. 

Harry huffs. “Of course not,” he replies before giving Louis a devastating smile. “Just wanted to share this with you.” 

Louis purses his lips. He’s not going to be moved by Harry wanting to play some stupid board game with him. There’s no way. He refuses to feel special or like what he’s sharing with Harry is precious over a torn up dusty game that smells of humidity because it’s been left on the floor in the basement for years without being touched. Absolutely not. 

He still swallows a bit more tightly than normal. 

“Well, let’s get started then.” 

Harry nods, face suddenly turning serious, eyes becoming focused. “I should warn you, I’m extremely competitive. I take this very seriously.” 

“Game on,” Louis replies, amused at the thought.

Fifty minutes later, Louis thinks he maybe should have taken Harry to his word when he said he took Scrabble seriously.

“There’s no fucking way!” Harry is yelling, pointing at the board, red-faced. “You’re not getting a single point for this. Not a single point!” he repeats insistingly. “That’s fucking cheating!” 

Louis, on the other hand, is thoroughly amused. “It’s a triple word!” he argues with a loud laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Harry looks actually angry over this. Louis has been planning this since they started the game and he saw his options, thinking it was a funny little stunt that would make Harry laugh. 

Clearly, he’s severely miscalculated. 

“It is no such thing!” Harry says with an offended gasp, putting a hand against his chest like he can’t bear it. He looks like Louis killed a member of his family or something, properly outraged at the mere thought. “It’s not even a  _ word _ !” 

Louis snorts. 

“Don’t you dare laugh,” Harry says through gritted teeth as he starts reaching towards the board to take off the letters Louis just put down. 

“Oi!” Louis interrupts, unable to stop laughing. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that. Now  _ that’s  _ cheating.” 

“How dare you,” Harry gasps, letting go of the letters. “I’m cheating? I’m cheating?!” He shakes his head. “Unbelievable. The nerve. The cheek. The audacity.” 

Louis bites his lower lip as Harry lists the attitudes he thinks Louis has displayed, counting them dramatically on his fingers. 

“Are you done?” Louis asks when Harry pauses for a breath. 

“No.” 

Harry gets back to the board, continuing to take away the letters to what Louis likes to think of as an ingenious move. 

“We’re going to rectify the situation and you’ll play your turn again. I’m merciful like that.”

“Oh, merciful,” Louis says with a nod. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? You’re merciful.”

“Yes.” 

“I’ll tell you what you’re not…. Flexible.”

“You can’t just put whatever you want on here Louis!” Harry exclaims, exasperated. 

He’s  _ actually seriously honestly genuinely _ worked up and this might be the most fun Louis has had in months. 

“Names are allowed in Scrabble,” Louis bluffs, looking down at his nails with pouty lips. 

“They are not! Have you never played Scrabble!” Harry shouts, raising his arms in irritation. “That’s famously one of the core rules!” 

“Skywalker is a word,” Louis says calmly, just to irritate Harry further. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s a word.” 

“Point me to the dictionary it’s in then!” Harry spats out, putting an accusative index in Louis’ face. “Hum?” he adds, looking at Louis expectantly. “Open the Merriam-Webster app on your and tell me where it says that Skywalker is a word! Let’s have a look in the Oxford English Dictionary then! Prove me wrong Tomlinson! I’m waiting!” 

“It’s really not that serious darling,” Louis says slowly, voice serene. It’ll rile Harry up even more if Louis doesn’t appear bothered. “All I’m saying it’s that considering the placement of that  _ word _ ,” he puts emphasis on it with a teasing smile on his face, “it counts as triple the point. Which, if I can still do simple addition, puts me in the lead. But, I suppose if you’re such a sore loser that you want me to play something else just because you want to win, then fine. Sure. Of course. I’ll play again. It’s whatever,” he finishes with a small shrug. 

“I am NOT a sore loser!” Harry gasps. “I am an experienced player who knows the rules a little better than you! Slang? Accepted. Borrowed words from other languages? Accepted as long as they’re in the English dictionary. Names? Under no circumstances. Especially not a fictional character. And that’s final.” 

“Characters,” Louis corrects, emphasising the  _ s _ . “It’s more than one character’s name you know.” 

“That doesn’t change anything! It still isn’t real people! And it still doesn’t count! Laser swords don’t exist and neither does the force and neither do any of the Skywalkers and it doesn’t count.” Harry folds his arms tightly across his chest after his little outbursts, looking everything like the petulant child who didn’t get what he wanted and is now giving you the silent treatment. 

“Well, that’s a bit presumptuous,” Louis says, raising his eyebrows. 

“What?” 

“Laser swords and the force might exist. We don’t know that –” 

“Louis,” Harry interrupts. 

“Yes?” 

“Shut up. Stop trying to distract me. I’m not gonna give it to you. Skywalker isn’t a word. You’re not going to win by cheating like this! I won’t let you!” 

“So when you said you took this seriously, you really weren’t kidding,” Louis comments. “No wonder you had to play by yourself on tour. Imagine playing Scrabble against your boss and he goes insane over a tiny loose interpretation of the rules.” 

“It’s not a loose interpretation of the rules, it’s you cheating. It’s you explicitly going AGAINST the rules! Sorry, I don’t condone cheating.” Harry says the last bit while rolling his eyes dramatically, huffing and puffing.

Louis can practically see steam coming out of his ears.  

“Do you condone dropping this game and making out instead?” Louis offers, wiggling his eyebrows, jokingly seductive. 

There’s something ridiculously attractive about Harry being so bratty about this, actually angry and irritated. It might be the red colouring his cheeks or the sparkles in his eyes, might be the tense line of his shoulders or his haughty attitude. Louis doesn’t know, but he wants to poke it. 

“No!” 

Louis pouts before leaning over the game, putting both of his hands flat on the chest as he looms over Harry. 

“You don’t want to make out with me?” he teases, batting his eyelids.

“No,” Harry repeats though he doesn’t sound so sure. He’s frowning at Louis though. “I want to win,” he adds, a lot more certain this time. 

Louis smirks, leaning away, going back to his letters to grab what he needs. Quickly, he puts down a new word on the board. ‘Sky’, it now reads simply, nowhere near the red ‘triple word’ tile. 

“There you go,” Louis says cheekily, “you’ve won.” Then, he pushes the entire board off the chest, letters falling into the fake fur of the rug, some of them clattering on the cement. 

Harry looks about to protest for half a second before he shrugs, crawling around the chest to kiss Louis. 

They make out for a bit, Louis’ neck bent at a weird angle to meet Harry who is leaning down as much as possible from where he’s standing on his knees. Louis takes one of his hands off Harry’s waist, reaching up to grab at his hair, tilting his head in a much more comfortable position, groaning in satisfaction as he does so. 

“Wait, wait!” Louis says between kisses. “Hang on.”

“Do you want to move somewhere?” Harry offers, clearly uncomfortable too. 

“No,” Louis replies. “I mean, yes, obviously. Let’s go to your room. But also we should really clean up this mess before we do.” 

“What?” Harry asks, looking at the letters everywhere. 

“Clifford could swallow one of those.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. “Right.” He frowns. “I thought he rarely comes up here because it’s a struggle.” 

“I mean, he doesn’t, but I can’t really take the risk.” 

At that, Harry softens. “No, of course. Of course not.” 

“Sorry,” Louis laughs. “I was trying to be a bit sexy and spontaneous, using all that Scrabble anger and passion…” he says, reaching down to squeeze Harry’s bum. “That failed spectacularly.” 

“I’m the one who should apologise,” Harry says sheepishly. “I’m not a yeller, but Scrabble really gets me going.” 

“I noticed,” Louis snorts. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be all rude and everything.”

“Please believe me when I say that was the funniest shit I’ve ever seen, never apologise for it.” 

“It wasn’t funny,” Harry pouts and Louis leans up a smidge to kiss him. 

“You’re a massive fucking dork.” 

“You tried to put a Star Wars name on the board, you’re the dork.” 

“No,” Louis shakes his head. “You don’t get to flip this on me. You’re a massive  _ massive _ dork.” 

“Okay,” Harry agrees, not looking ashamed at all. “I’m a massive dork.” 

“Massive massive,” Louis insists, passing his fingers through Harry’s curls. 

“Yeah. That,” Harry agrees, pecking Louis’ lips again. 

“Just so you know,” Louis says, a bit nervous, “I love that you’re a massive massive dork.” 

Harry smiles. “I love that you’re a dork too.” He pauses, looking away for a second before meeting Louis’ gaze again. “Shall we clean up your horny mess then?” 

“It’s not a horny mess!” Louis squeaks even though it totally is.

“It’s alright Louis, no judgement,” Harry says with a wink. “But Clifford doesn’t deserve to choke on a Scrabble tile because you desperately want us to fuck.” 

&

“What are you doing?” Harry asks from his bed, voice deeper than normal in his half-awakened state, sleepy and hoarse. 

Louis turns away from the door, facing the grand fluffy bed and the warm boy still in it. 

“Going for a run?” Louis replies slowly like it’s obvious, putting both of his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s assuming it was a rhetorical question; he runs almost every morning. 

As if on cue, the thunder roars loudly. There’s rain splattering on the window, a constant yet calming rhythm that’s been lulling them since the previous night. 

Harry looks ruffled, hair all over the place, fanned over the pillow, and he frowns at Louis, eyes confused for a second before he looks away from Louis’ face and at the window, at the terrible terrible storm outside. 

Harry clears his throat. “In this weather?” he says, voice now dripping with judgement. 

Louis grins. The sky lights up briefly. “It’s Scotland,” he says, shrugging. “Can’t exactly avoid a bit of rain, can I?” 

The thunder booms again and Harry raises a sceptical eyebrow at him. 

“A bit of rain?” 

Louis shrugs again. “Bit of rain, big scary storm… Same difference, innit?” 

Harry shivers a little before burrowing himself deeper into the pile of blankets. Ever since Louis started sleeping in his room, they’ve been adding new throws and wool blankets to the bed every other night, the whole thing now resembling more a nest than anything else. Every day, it gets harder and harder to leave it. Every day, the voice in the back of Louis’ mind telling him to just drop everything and waste the day in bed with Harry gets louder and louder. Every day, the voice in the back of Louis’ mind telling him his time with Harry is almost up gets a bit more frantic. This morning, with Hell raining down on Fair Isle, it’s a tempting sight, for sure. Louis knows how comfortable and warm it is, with a body to hold that fits in his arms perfectly in ways he can’t afford to ponder too long. 

Indulging himself is dangerous though. There are a few weeks left, less than a month,  until Harry vanishes – until Harry goes back where he belongs. 

Not to mention, Louis has been skipping his training regiment every other day since he started sleeping with Harry. He’s slowly morphing into an undisciplined mess, unable to resist the desire to sleep in cuddled up to Harry’s body and waste the morning away rather than exercising as he usually does. But today…. Today he’s going to resist goddamnit. Today, he’s going to run. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees from under the covers. “Big scary storm.” He shivers again, this time exaggeratedly for Louis’ benefit. He’s a good actor when he wants to be, just manipulative enough for it to remain charming. “Come back to bed,” he adds in a whisper, voice raspier than before, and bloody hell, Louis almost drops everything right here and there. “It’s cold without you,” Harry finally says, a blatant lie considering how bundled up he is right now. How warm and enticing he looks.

Louis smirks in response, but he still takes a few steps away from the door, getting slightly closer to the bed. 

“You’re definitely not cold right now.” 

“I am,” Harry says, fully grinning now. “I’m so cold, Louis.” 

“You’re a liar is what you are,” Louis replies, taking two more steps forward and one step sideways until he’s right at the edge on Harry’s side. “And you should come with me on a run if you want to spend time with me,” he challenges, cocking his hip as he leans on the bed a little. 

“Pfff.” 

“Don’t pfff me!” 

“I’m not going on a run in the rain! It’s winter, are you mad?” 

“Says the man who ran into the freezing ocean at the beginning of the month!” Louis argues back. 

“That was tradition,” Harry points. “This… This is just madness.” 

The thunder booms again like it has a personal vendetta against Louis and wants to take Harry’s side. 

“Actually you were about a month too late for tradition so don’t play that game with me, Mr Pop Star.” Louis singsongs the nickname in an annoying high-pitched voice and he smirks when it makes Harry laugh. 

“It was tradition.” 

“Okay,” Louis agrees, climbing on the bed and crawling over Harry’s body until he reaches his face. “Well my morning run is a tradition and  _ someone  _ has been making me skip it half the time these past few weeks,” Louis says pointedly, “so I’m going.” 

Harry doesn’t even try to look sheepish. “Gee, I wonder who could be responsible for  _ that _ ,” he says before rising a little to kiss Louis. 

Louis meets him halfway, slides in his fingers in the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, burying them there as they kiss. 

“Yeah, I wonder who that could be,” Louis teases between two kisses. 

Harry snickers, making kissing him kind of impossible so Louis leans away, looking at his sparkly eyes as he laughs.

“Sounds like a smart man,” Harry says, wiggling his eyebrows as he reaches down to grab a handful of Louis’ bum and squeeze. “He knows not to let you run away from him.” 

“You’re really just going to compliment your own self like that uh,” Louis says, breaking their banter. “Okay, if that’s how it is.” He starts getting up, but Harry drags him down again, pressing the full length of Louis’ body against his, a ridiculous amount of blankets separating them. 

“Stay in bed,” Harry orders. “We’re comfy.” 

“You’re comfy,” Louis says. “I’m stuck on about a million blanket lumps right now. Besides, I’m off on a run in the storm. It’s gonna be cold, it might even be unpleasant, but there’s something really fun about being out in that weather and I really want to go.” 

“You really, really want to go?” Harry asks like he still can’t believe it.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be fun. You should come with me.” 

Harry seems to consider it for a second. “No.” 

“Come on,” Louis whispers encouragingly, leaning down to kiss Harry’s cheek. “Come on, come on!” 

“No.” 

“You’re so boring,” Louis teases. “Fine, stay cocooned my butterfly,” he adds, crawling down the length of Harry’s body and kissing the top of the blanket approximately where Harry’s tattoo lies on his belly. 

Harry laughs, reaching down to push Louis’ fringe off his face. “How cold is it going to be?” he asks in a small voice and Louis knows that he’s won. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t be that bad.” 

Harry hums, still playing with Louis’ hair. “Water is cleansing,” he says, mostly to himself. 

“You did say that,” Louis agrees solemnly. 

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go out in the rain a bit,” he says. The thunder rumbles in agreement. “Not for long though,” Harry adds, glancing at the window. 

Louis shakes his head. “‘Course not,” he agrees, getting up to his knees and shaking Harry a little. “Well! Come on then! Get dressed!” He gets up from the bed and starts going through Harry’s stuff, trying to find him comfortable clothes. Louis throws a pair of sweatpants at him, quickly followed by one of his own hoodies. 

“Wait,” Harry says, grabbing Louis’ arm. “Can we take a bath when we come back?” he asks, eyes pleading. 

Louis smirks. “‘Course,” he says softly. “It’s tradition.” 

Ten minutes later, after they’ve both bundled themselves in massive raincoats – bright red for Harry and bright yellow for Louis –  and they’ve dug up the old wellies Louis keeps in the basement, they’re finally ready to brave the outside world. 

Louis opens the door and they both stare at the storm, still hesitating a little. Clifford, bless him, takes one look at the rain, tilts his head to the left, and runs outside. 

“Well?” Louis asks, offering Harry his hand. “We shouldn’t let the dog be the bravest out of all of us.” 

“Right,” Harry agrees, tangling his fingers in Louis’ and taking a step forward. 

Once outside, it’s not actually that bad. They’re probably being a bit reckless, going out while the weather is so intense, but Louis can’t find it in himself to care. They stay close to the lighthouse, Clifford and Harry running around chasing each other in the rain. At one point, Harry slides down and falls in the grass and Louis goes to help him up but he’s laughing so hard that his attempt to lift him up ends with both of them flat on the ground, soaking wet and giggling. Harry tries to kiss him but they’re both laughing too hard to do it with any kind of efficiency. 

Once they’ve gotten back up, Harry starts running with Clifford again as if nothing happened and Louis watches them for a bit with a fond smile on his face. He’s still the one not jogging, but he can’t say that he particularly care about his failing. At some point, he takes his hood off, tilting his head back and spreading his arms wide, eyes closed and feeling the overwhelming power of the rain. 

“What are you doing?” he hears Harry shout over the storm and Louis just smiles, not even bothering to open his eyes. 

“Cleansing myself,” Louis replies loudly too and he makes a show of deeply inhaling and exhaling. After a few seconds, he starts twirling on himself. 

It reminds him of being a kid, of summer storms where he and his little sisters would go out and stand in the middle of the road, twirling and dancing until they were absolutely soaking wet and their mum would call them from the house, yell at them to stop standing in traffic like that. 

He can hear Harry laugh and when he stops and opens his eyes, a bit dizzy from it all, Louis sees he started doing the same. Clifford is barking and jumping around him like he wants to participate too and Louis can’t believe they’re doing this at five in the morning, in complete darkness. The sun won’t rise for another couple of hours and it feels like the whole world is asleep. It’s just the two of them, the two of them in the eye of the storm, laughing and laughing. It’s cold and wet and miserable. 

Or at least it should be.

But they’re young and foolish and together. 

&

“Bath?” Harry says as soon as they pass the cottage’s threshold and he’s started shivering now that they’re inside and the adrenalin has come down. 

“Just gonna dry and feed Clifford first,” Louis explains, taking the raincoat then the wellies off.

He waits until Harry’s taken his off too before grabbing them and making his way down to the basement, dropping the soaking items into the massive sink that’s inexplicably downstairs. Louis suspects it was used for doing the laundry by hand at some point, but he never really questioned it. Today, it’s proving useful.

He grabs three towels before making his way back up, throwing one to Harry before he starts wiping the floor with one where Clifford started shaking himself dry. He uses the third one to finish off drying his dog quickly, giving him kisses and praise as he does so. When he looks up, Harry is still standing there in the entry, leaning against the reception desk, hair wet and messy where he tried to dry it with the towel, a fond smile on his face that hits Louis right in the chest. 

“Regrets?” Louis asks when Harry rubs his arms to warm himself up. 

“Nah,” Harry says with an eye roll. “I’m gonna go back to bed after we’ve had a bath though, just so you know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed it’s not even bloody six in the morning. I’m having a bath, then a nap and you can’t stop me.” 

“I wasn’t planning to,” Louis says with a laugh before making his way to the kitchen. 

“And I expect you to read me to sleep!” Harry calls behind him. 

“Alright!” Louis replies with a laugh, not bothering to look back. 

“And play with my hair,” Harry adds once Louis has turned into the kitchen. 

Louis purses his lips and looks down at Clifford. “What are we going to do about his boy?” he asks his dog rhetorically. 

&

“Oh,” Louis whispers when he walks into the living room a few days later, to find Harry sitting on the cushion on the windowsill, guitar in hand as he strums an unfamiliar melody, humming along with that soft low voice Louis is so fond of. 

He’s looking at the cliffs and the sea through the splattered rain on the window, not even turning around when Louis walks in, or when he speaks. His faithful notebook open in front of him, bits and pieces of songs scribbled inside, bits and pieces of Harry’s soul that no one has had the chance to witness yet. 

Louis smiles, taking a few seconds to look at him, barely any sun to shine on him through the cloudy, moody skies. Still, Harry looks beautiful even in the cold grey light. He’s wearing one of Louis’ hoodies – a yellow one that fits him perfect since Louis likes to swim in them for comfort – and some black watch tartan pyjama trousers. His feet are naked, toes wiggling once in a while as he keeps playing the same tune over and over again. He’s clearly working through something, voice ending in a little frustrated growl when it seems like he can’t resolve the melody the way he wants to. The humidity has made is hair curlier than usual and now that it’s almost at his shoulder, Louis can see fully formed ringlets falling from behind his ear and on his face. 

He’s just about to leave, to let Harry create in peace, when he finally acknowledges Louis’ presence. 

“Don’t go,” Harry says, still strumming. “You’re not bothering me, if you want to stay.” Then, he turns his gaze away from the window, smiling softly at Louis. “This song might be the death of me,” he confesses with a sheepish smile, stopping abruptly and letting the guitar simply rest uselessly on his thigh. 

“Well,” Louis begins, as he advances towards the window, “we wouldn’t want that.” When he’s finally reached Harry, Louis motions at him to make space. “Move your pretty bum forward,” he adds when Harry isn’t quick enough. 

“You think my bum is pretty,” Harry teases while Louis slides behind him, leaning his back against the wall and fitting Harry comfortably between his legs, his back on Louis’ chest.

“It’s a cute bum,” Louis agrees, reaching down to pinch it, smirking into Harry’s shoulder when he squeals and squirms against Louis. “I’m quite fond of it,” he says, his tone soft enough to reveal it’s not just Harry’s bum Louis is fond of. He wraps his arms around Harry’s slim waist, sneaking his hands into the hoodie pocket. Once they’re comfortably settled, he speaks again. “What’s wrong with the song?” he asks, squeezing Harry’s lower tummy softly when he feels him sigh against him. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says, starting to play the melody again. 

Louis simply listens for a few minutes, eyes lost in the distance, staring through the rainy window at the cliffs. 

“I think it sounds beautiful,” Louis whispers into Harry’s ear, before kissing his neck. 

Harry stops playing again, shivering a little against Louis’ body. “You would,” Harry sighs. 

Louis snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean? Have I got no taste?” 

“No!” Harry squeaks, turning around to frown at Louis. “You’re just extremely supportive.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being supportive of your art Harry. I’ll just tell you it’s rubbish instead, shall I?” 

“Well, if that’s what you think, then yes. You should tell me it’s rubbish.” 

“I obviously don’t think it’s rubbish, Harry. I wouldn’t have said it’s beautiful if I didn't mean it. What do you think is wrong with it?” Louis asks again, persistent and a bit annoying on purpose. He pokes Harry in the tummy when the singer refuses to reply. 

“I don’t know,” Harry repeats, this time a bit whinier. 

“I think you do and maybe you just don’t want to tell me.” 

“It’s just not working. Nothing about it is working. Not the lyrics, not the melody. Nothing.” 

Louis snorts. “Someone’s in a bit of a mood,” he teases before pressing a few kisses in quick succession against Harry’s jaw. 

“Creating is the worst,” Harry whines and when Louis kisses him again, he notices the way his mouth twitches up a little. “Writing is the worst,” he adds, clearly angling for more kisses and who is Louis to deny him? “I’m the worst,” he finally says with a grin that blossoms fully into two cratered dimples. 

“You’re a brat is what you are,” Louis whispers wetly against his skin, but he obliges him. Always, he obliges him. “What is the song supposed to be about?” he asks after a beat, smiling to himself when Harry starts playing again instead of answering. 

“I don’t…” Harry starts, stopping himself abruptly and Louis wonders if he was about to say he doesn’t know again, if he was about to lie and couldn’t bring himself to.

Louis waits for a second, letting the melody envelop him in its softness. It feels tender, whatever it is about. Then, he says: “you don’t have to tell me.” 

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers. “I just… I guess I don’t fully know yet, but it’s about the quiet,” he admits. 

_ You make everything else quiet _ , Harry’s voice whispers to him from the previous week. 

“The quiet?” It comes out strangled. 

“Yes… About how much I need it now. How I’ve been reborn in whispers after a lifetime of thunderous sounds.”

Louis gulps, closing his eyes and letting the words, the poetry, wash over him. The song isn’t about him, it can’t be. He can’t let himself hope that it is, can’t let this hurt him like that. 

“Reborn in whispers?” Louis repeats, trying it out. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, half-mumbles. “It’s one of the lyrics I’ve been playing with.” 

“It’s… evocative.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point.” He keeps on strumming before starting to sing. “Like all the other sinners, reborn in whispers…” 

The lyrics transform into more humming, soft, sad, and Louis closes his eyes, tightening his hold on Harry’s body while he sings. 

Then, just as abruptly as he began, he stops. “I don’t know.” 

Louis hums as comfortingly as he can. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, confident. 

Harry huffs. “Yeah, I guess. Eventually.”

“I’m not an expert on creativity,” Louis begins kindly in Harry’s ear, “but you probably shouldn’t try to force it. It’ll come.” Louis pauses, kissing Harry’s cheek, before adding “eventually.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to rocketman & RWRB for inspiring one of the scenes in this chapter!

“Do you have to encourage my dog to go swimming every single time we’re down here?” Louis asks, pretending to be annoyed when Clifford runs in the water to grab the tennis ball Harry just threw in there.

There’s not much that would stop his stupid pet from running into the freezing water, but Louis often tries to limit the damage so he doesn’t have a big lump of fur trailing water everywhere in the cottage.

Harry definitely doesn’t look remorseful at all. He gives Louis a massive grin before exclaiming excitedly when Clifford comes running, tennis ball in his mouth.

“Look at you!” Harry yells, applauding, before grabbing the ball. “You’re such a champion. A big swimming champion!” he insists, before throwing the ball again.

“Clearly you do,” Louis deadpans, mostly to himself.

“Aww, come on. Don’t be grumpy, he loves it,” Harry says, jogging a little to get to Louis’ side, wrapping an arm over his shoulders.

“You’re cleaning up the mess he’s going to leave in the house later,” Louis declares, resting his head against Harry’s arm.

“Of course,” he agrees, kissing Louis’ forehead. “It’s worth putting in the work for his happiness, right?” he says and Louis really should stop feeling surprised whenever he says deep, insightful things like they’re little nothings.

“I suppose,” Louis jokes, rolling his eyes.

“It’s like me following the program,” Harry adds, reaching inside his jacket for a pair of sunglasses Louis had no idea he owned. He puts them on and looks at the horizon. “It’s worth all the work.”

“To gain happiness?”

“Well, to get closer to it, at least,” Harry laughs. “I don’t know that people are ever fully truly happy. I mean, they are obviously, I just mean… No one is happy all the time. People aren’t built that way. And life would lack depth. But no one should be unhappy the way I was, you know?”

Louis looks down at the sand, wrinkling his nose. He sniffs. “Yeah, definitely not,” he says, trying to not let himself feel emotional. “Though you’re cheating a lot on the program I have to say. I mean, what part of this is your routine?” Louis teases. “Not to mention you’re not even doing group therapy.”

“Oi!” Harry says with a laugh, tightening his arm around Louis’ shoulders. “Do you want all my AA secrets to be spilt in The Sun or the Daily Mail because some random can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Isn’t like… the foundation of the whole thing anonymity, like… wouldn’t that be breaking a sacred rule.”

“Yeah, ‘cause people have never been known to break rules,” Harry says and Louis can’t see his eyes, but he guesses he’s probably rolling them.

“It’s just me,” Louis says softly as Clifford runs back towards them. He grabs the ball and throws it again, on the sand this time thank you very much. “You can say you’re too anxious to risk it even though there’s probably groups you could go to fine. I won’t judge.”

Harry’s shoulders drop a little and he nods. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Louis clears his throat, then, awkwardly says: “so what do you want for tea then?”

It makes Harry laugh, at least. “Is that you trying to subtly change the subject because you’ve made me morose now?”

Louis puffs his cheeks like a chipmunk, crossing his eyes, before exhaling. “Yep!” he admits, tilting his head a little to look at Harry. He smiles when he feels Harry’s arm around his shoulders tighten even more, Harry holding him closer. “Is it working?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Yeah, it’s working. And I want chips I think.”

“Just chips?” Louis laughs.

Harry shrugs. “Chips are a meal.”

“Yeah. I think I’ve got some sausages left in the freezer, we could have that too.”

Harry nods. “Sorted,” he agrees before whistling, calling Clifford over so they can make their way back.

&

“You’re too small to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders like that, you know,” Louis says conversationally a few days later, letting his right hand slide down Harry’s naked torso to grip his waist, just above his sweatpants, wrapping him in a half-hearted hug.

Louis has been thinking about this for a while now: the way Harry worries, the way he puts pressure on himself, the way he sees his fans, maybe the whole world, as something to overcome, even though he’d never admit it.

Harry shivers, leaning into Louis’ body and tangling their legs, not quite turning on his side. He’s looking away, looking down at where Louis’ arm disappears under the covers, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. There are goosebumps on his arms and Louis is about to ask him if he’s cold, if he wants more blankets or a jumper, when he hums, reaching down to wrap his fingers around Louis’ wrist and squeeze.

Louis, who was leaning on his left arm, moves to rest his head on the pillow they’re sharing before passing his fingers through Harry’s curls. Harry leans into the touch subconsciously, eyelids fluttering closed, sleepy despite it being only late afternoon. The sun has set already though and the lamp in Harry’s room cast a warm and soft glow around them. Harry squeezes Louis’ right wrist again.

“I think,” Louis whispers against his temple, “that you might need help, if you’re going to carry all that weight.”

Who knows what possesses him to say such things out loud, but now that he’s started, Louis doesn’t think he can stop.

Harry’s body stays relaxed against Louis’, but his eyes pop open, finding Louis’ easily. “I don’t carry the weight of the world on my shoulders,” he denies, maybe too firmly. “Just the weight of my own worries and people’s expectations of me.”

Louis smiles, sadly. “Isn’t that the same thing? In the end?” he asks. He pauses, scratching the back of Harry’s neck. “Doesn’t it weigh the same?”

Harry shrugs. “S’not like there’s a lot of people I can trust with that stuff. Everyone always wants something from me, in the end. And it just gets heavier when people aren’t around anymore to share the load. Might as well just weather the storm myself. I’m not that small. And I’ve got steadier feet now that I’m sober.”

You can trust me, Louis wants to say. I don’t want anything from you. But he can’t because it’s not true. Louis is always going to want more, want things Harry probably can’t give, so he stays silent because if there’s one thing he never wants is for Harry to think him a liar.

&

Louis sits on the piano bench the next afternoon with a grumpy look on his face, frowning in Harry’s direction before putting his hands on the keys.

“You know, you’re lucky you’re very cute,” Louis comments, squinting at where Harry is leaning on top of the piano, face resting on one of his hands and a dreamy look on his face. “I don’t play seriously for just anyone, I hope you know that.”

“I do know that,” Harry says and why does he have to sound so soft and gentle. How on Earth is Louis meant to resist?

“You’ve bullied me into this, I hope you’re proud.”

“I would hardly call it bullying,” Harry replies, rolling his eyes. “But yep, I’m quite proud.”

“Bullying, I tell you!”

“Louis, you don’t have to play for me if you don’t want to,” Harry says, seriously this time. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Louis sighs, taking his hands off the piano. “S’just a bit awkward, isn’t it? I mean, I usually play during big parties where no one is really listening, or everyone is singing on top of everyone else so no one notices I’m doing it. And I’m pretty drunk most of the time, to be quite honest,” Louis admits, widening his eyes to make Harry laugh. “And you…” he falters, looking down at the old instrument, not valuable enough to be considered an antique but old enough that’s for sure, battered too. “I mean, you’re a proper musician… I just fuck around with the keys, innit? ‘S’embarrassing.”

“Hey,” Harry says insistently and Louis looks away from the key and into Harry’s eyes. “First of all, I’m not a proper anything.”

“You write songs for a living.”

“Oi,” Harry says with a laugh, “shut it.”

Louis makes a zipper motion in front of his mouth but widens his eyes in joking disbelief.

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I’m not a proper anything. I’m the opposite of classically trained on the piano. I just… what was it you said? Fuck around with the keys? Yeah, I do that too, mostly. So just because there are some American idiots somewhere dumb enough to pay me for it doesn’t mean my playing is more valid than yours. I mean, everyone knows they’re paying mostly for the face and not the skills or the human being underneath.”

“Harry,” Louis says in a defeated exhale, suddenly feeling incredibly sad.

But Harry waves him off. “It’s a disgusting industry and you hate it and I have value, I know, I know. What matters here,” Harry continues, “is that my playing isn’t more valid than yours and you don’t have to be embarrassed. I would just really love for you to play me a song because I love music and I think it’d be really nice for us to share that. I share my music with you all the time… But you don’t have to, obviously.”

Louis looks at the absolute and utter sincerity in Harry’s eyes and swears under his breath.

“See?” he says, poking Harry in the chest. “Bullying! Emotional manipulation! How am I supposed to say no now?”

Harry, shameless as he is, simply laughs. “You can still say no!”

“Of course, I can’t! Look at you! With your big sparkly eyes and I want us to share that” Louis shakes his head and lets his fingers dance on the keys a bit, not really playing anything, just notes to warm up. “Honestly, like I stood a chance.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispers when Louis starts playing Elton John’s ‘Your Song’. He leans down, kissing Louis and distracting him, a few notes dropping here and there.

“This is like… the only song I properly know,” Louis explains when Harry moves away. “Apart from happy birthday and Christmas tunes. It’s my mum’s favourite.”

“It’s a great song,” Harry agrees, walking around the piano to come and sit next to Louis on the bench.

Louis smirks at their proximity. “She always says it’s the only great love song.”

Harry lets one of his hand rests on Louis’ thigh, pondering the statement. “Bit rough on everyone else who's ever written a love song,” he comments with a grimace, “but I can’t say I disagree. Besides, if you’re gonna pick one song to be the greatest love song ever, at least pick a gay one. Can’t argue with that.”

Louis bursts into laughter, the music stopping abruptly as he hides his face in Harry’s shoulder.

“What?” Harry says, chuckling a little. “It’s true. Gay love is the only valid form of love, everyone knows that. Elton certainly knows it.”

“You call him Elton, do you?” Louis asks, lifting his head a little, chin still resting on Harry’s shoulder, their face very close together.

“Well that’s his name, so yeah.”

“You’ve met him before, haven’t you?” Louis asks seriously.

“Yeah, we… I’ve been emailing him a little since I got out of rehab. Gotta love that internet cafe in town,” he jokes, looking a bit uncomfortable. “We’re not friends or anything, but I’d met him before and he… well, he gets it.”

“Wild,” Louis mumbles, mostly to himself. “It’s weird, I… I always forget that you… Well, not really forget, obviously I don’t forget that you’re ridiculously famous, but you’re just so… so you… that it slips my mind. Even when we’ve just been talking about it. I just forget. You’re too ordinary, I suppose.”

He says the last bit as a joke, meaning the absolute opposite, knowing Harry is the most special person he’s ever met.

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Harry whispers.

“It is,” Louis insists.

&

“What about Beyonce?”

Harry snorts from where he’s sprawled on the rug in the lantern room.“No,” he says with a lot of emphasis, eyes widening. “I have definitely not met Beyonce.”

Louis pouts. He’s laying down on the bench on his side, his head supported by one of his hands, the other buried deep in a bag of Haribo as he munches on, trying to find the most famous person Harry knows.

“What’s the point of you being famous if you haven’t met Beyonce?” Louis rolls his eyes as he starts chewing on two pieces of candy at once.

“I ask myself this question every single day darling,” Harry says. “More candy please,” he demands politely before opening his mouth, creating a target Louis has managed to miss half the times so far.

“Alright,” Louis replies, reaching into the bag then leaning as far as he can on the bench before throwing the candy into Harry’s waiting mouth. “Yaaass!” he screams when it goes straight in, smiling goofily down at Harry’s face, endeared by the way he’s messily chewing on the gummy bear.

“You did it!” Harry laughs, mouth still a bit full. He chews for a few seconds, then swallows. “I met Rihanna?” he offers and okay, even Louis, who absolutely refuses to be impressed by anything Pop Star Harry Styles related, has to admit that it’s pretty cool.

“Fine,” Louis says, “I guess you get a point for that. That’s… That’s pretty solid. Are you friends with her?” He can’t help but be intrigued, leaning in for some sort of amazing gossip. God, what if Harry hangs out with her all the time and here Louis is, throwing haribos into his mouth like a dumbass.

“Well…” Harry smiles sheepishly. “I say met her… I sat behind her at the VMAs once. We got some pictures taken together.”

Louis snorts. “That’s it?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. I mean we said hi and everything. She asked me where I got the orange,” he says mysteriously before opening his mouth again and pointing at it.

Louis rolls his eyes with fondness, but obliges him straight away, sending another candy straight into his mouth.

“What orange?”

Harry laughs. “Just an orange I found in the lift and ate during the show. I think she thought it was weird.”

“H… It is weird.”

“Yeah, well those events are always so uncomfortable and weird anyway… I got so pissed at the after-party,” he admits, looking a little uneasy. “Just felt really… I don’t know, lonely and alienated so I started drinking to feel more comfortable and I didn’t stop until one of my bodyguards literally had to carry me out of the building. I couldn’t even walk. It’s a miracle there aren’t any pap pictures of that particular walk of shame…” He wrinkles his nose in distaste, red dusting his cheeks.

He’s clearly embarrassed by the story and Louis feels a sharp pang of regret at having ever brought up the topic of fame in the first place. It’s always a gamble as far as conversation topics go. Half the time, Harry will delight him with the wildest stories associated with touring and recording, while the other, he grows taciturn and quiet, upset about the ways it affected his life. Usually, Louis won’t bring it up, letting Harry decide when he’s feeling comfortable enough to mention it. They talk about the music often, of course, but that’s different. That’s part of Harry in a way the fame isn’t, tattooed unto his core, an undeniable part of himself.

Louis made the mistake of jokingly mentioning it tonight and the guilt of bringing Harry sadness only swells as the seconds pass and a shadow grows on Harry’s face. Louis lets go of his bag of candy, clumsily climbing off the bench as fast as possible to join Harry on the floor, laying down on top of him with his head resting on Harry’s chest.

“Honey,” Louis whispers, pressing a kiss under Harry’s jaw. “I shouldn’t have brought that stuff up. I’m sorry, it’s my bad.”

Louis can’t tell if it’s the apology or the kiss, but a small shy smile blossoms on Harry’s face.

“Don’t apologise,” he replies in a whisper too, stroking Louis’ lower back. “I… I don’t mind talking about this stuff with you,” he admits and isn’t that a punch to the gut, the way it makes Louis feel so fucking special. “It just makes me… I don’t know, all fucked up sometimes. Sad. Angry.”

“Well, I don’t mind that it makes you sad and angry and fucked up sometimes,” Louis replies, smiling kindly when Harry looks down at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Harry waits a few seconds before speaking again. “It wasn’t a bad night, you know? There’s a lot I remember enjoying. There’s a lot I don’t actually remember, which… is whatever.” He clenches his jaw, looking angry for a second. At himself most likely and Louis wishes there was a way he could help Harry be kinder to himself. When he speaks again, Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper. “And there is a lot that was pretty bad, for sure. It’s just hard sometimes to not just remember the bad and forget about the nice stuff. I’m working on it though. Like… When I first got out of rehab, I wanted to quit music forever. Like… just…” Harry clears his throat, eyes wet. He blinks a few times, trying to stop the tears and Louis reaches up to caress his cheek, silently supporting him. “Just fucking disappear from the public eye forever. I was so angry that my biggest dream was the one thing that ruined me, you know? I was so angry. That’s partly why I came here. Because I wanted to disappear. But… the further away I got from it, the more I realised… It wasn’t the dream’s fault… Yeah, that lifestyle didn’t help, but I’m the one who didn’t ask for help when I was drowning. I’m the one who fucking self-medicated with alcohol when anxiety got the best of me. It’s my own fault. I made… so many mistakes and I dealt with everything in the worst of ways. I pushed my family away, I pushed my friends away… I pushed my manager away. Everyone who had my best interest at heart, everyone who wanted me to succeed in a healthy way… So yeah, I made mistakes and I made all the wrong choices, but… I’m starting to realise that it doesn’t mean that those years of my life are all wasted. It doesn’t mean that I have to feel guilty about every second of it, you know? Part of the process for me has been being able to acknowledge that I can’t blame the circumstances entirely and that… it’s okay to look back on the good memories, the good things in my career, without guilt. I can tell the funny story of me eating an orange at a massive award show like a weirdo to this guy I like and still laugh about it and it… it doesn’t mean that I’m glorifying my…” Harry clears his throat. “... my alcoholism or something.”

“Of course you’re not doing that,” Louis says.

“Yeah, I know. I just… I don’t know, it’s… it’s hard to navigate sometimes.”

Louis hums. “I… Obviously, I’m not an expert or anything, but I don’t think it’s abnormal to have mixed feelings about it all. It hasn’t been that long at all and from what I know, addiction is an ongoing battle. You’re doing fine, you know. You’re doing great even. It’s normal to struggle to find a good way to talk about something that was probably a massive fucking trigger for you.”

Halfway through Louis’ speech, Harry starts crying.

“I’m scared,” he admits in a small voice before putting an arm over his face, hiding himself from view. “Sorry,” he whispers before sniffing and Louis literally wants to kill something with how much he hates the shame and vulnerability in Harry’s voice.

“Don’t apologise,” Louis whispers, stroking Harry’s chest soothingly. “It’s okay, please don’t apologise,” he repeats, voice cracking as he feels his own eyes fill with tears.

“Okay,” Harry agrees in a small voice, still hiding his face. He inhales deeply, once, twice, before speaking again. “I spoke to my manager yesterday,” he admits, still crying. “We’ve not been in touch a lot, but he’s been… He’s been worried, I guess, and I told him I’m coming back quite soon.”

Louis doesn’t stop his circle motions on Harry’s chest, enjoying the softness of his cream cable knit. He hums softly, encouraging Harry to go on.

“I told him I’ve been writing… I mean, I suppose he guessed that already since he’s the one who sent me my guitar, but he started talking about booking some studio time when I’m back in LA and I… I want to record the songs, I really do. If there’s one thing I’ve figured out being here is that I want to keep making music, but I just… I just feel like it’s going so fast and I’m scared. I’m so scared, Louis.”

“Oh, love,” Louis whispers, pressing a kiss under Harry’s jaw.

“What if I’m not strong enough?” Harry says in a sob. “What if I go back and… and... it’s exactly like before.”

“Hey,” Louis says, reaching up to grab Harry’s arm and move it off his face, looking straight into Harry’s eyes. “You’re not the same as you were before, right? And you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“But –”

“I can’t promise you that you won’t ever fall again, that you won’t ever make mistakes. I can’t promise you that it’ll be easy, that you won’t be tempted… but you know one thing I know for sure? You’re definitely armed with the knowledge and the wisdom to deal with whatever happens, yeah?” Louis insists. “Right there,” he adds, cheesy as fuck, but sincere, pointing down at Harry’s chest. “And you’re not going to be alone in this anymore. You’ll have people looking out for you too. You’ll have help. I know you said you can’t trust most people, but you know who the good ones are, right? It’s like I said before, Mr Pop Star, you can’t carry the whole world on your shoulders, right? ”

Harry laughs, wetly, still crying. “Right,” he agrees reluctantly, probably remembering his previous stubbornness.

“What is it that you said to me?” Louis asks, reaching to pass his fingers through Harry’s tangled curls.

“What?” Harry replies, looking a little confused.

“What did you say?” Louis repeats, insistent.

Suddenly, realisation passes over Harry’s face. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “I’m not that small,” he whispers to himself, a solid mantra, his own words.

“You’re not small,” Louis echoes. “You’re not small at all.”

&

Louis isn’t sure how it happens, but suddenly they’re out of days. It’s March fourteen and Harry is leaving tomorrow, back to a life he equally loves and finds scary, back to do what he’s best at, what he was born for. Louis is so happy for him, and yet.

They wake up early and by some unspoken agreement, they carry on as usual, respecting the routine they’ve established months ago and they’ve mostly been sticking to. Both of them get dressed in companionable silence, bundling themselves in warm comfy clothes before they exit Harry’s bedroom, Clifford following closely behind. Louis can’t help the overwhelming fondness taking over his entire body at the sight. Cliffy is not really allowed in guest bedrooms and Louis can definitely remember closing the door behind them the night before, which means Harry probably took pity of him in the middle of the night and let him in, making space for him at their feet. It’s the only explanation as to why he was cuddled up at Harry’s feet when Louis first opened his eyes this morning. He should maybe be annoyed at the indulgence, at the bad habits being taught to his pet, but Louis can’t find it in himself to care.

Once downstairs, they grab their coats from the living room, Harry picking up Louis’ denim jacket and handing him his own green coat in exchange. Louis looks ridiculous in it, what with the fact that it's already too big for Harry who is slightly broader than him, but he can endure looking like a child in his father’s clothes if that’s what Harry wants. Besides, there is something weirdly comforting about wearing each other’s armour on a day like this, like they’re lifting each other up, using each other’s strengths.

The sky is dark, sunrise still a while away, but it’s not too cold and it doesn’t look like it’s going to rain. Not yet anyway. They take off at a relatively leisurely pace, jogging along the cliffs in tandem with Clifford a few paces ahead. Once the dog reaches their usual pathway down, he sits down obediently next to it, waiting for them with what Louis can only describe as an eager look on his face. They get there merely a few seconds after him and together, they make their way to the beach, careful and slow. Louis grabs at Harry’s waist from behind as they go down, keeping him steady with a soft, but firm hand.

“Y’alright?” Louis asks and Harry simply hums in agreement.

He’d feel stupid for doublechecking, but he’s seen Harry almost slip too many times to risk it. There’s no way Louis is sending him back to Los Angeles injured. Or wherever it is he’s planning to record his next masterpiece.

Once on the beach, they start jogging again, laughing when Clifford runs alongside them, paws in the water. They run the length of the beach a few times, less than they normally would before Harry stops. He doesn’t look particularly tired or out of breath, but Louis follows his lead and stops running too.

“Everything okay?” Louis asks, looking for a sign of discomfort, or sadness on Harry’s face.

Harry nods, looking at the beach with soft eyes in the darkness. “Just want to enjoy this fully,” he explains, though he really doesn’t need to. They both know what he’s doing.

“Of course,” Louis replies, blinking away. “Wanna sit down for a bit?” he asks, pointing at a rock in the distance.

Harry nods, quietly reaching for Louis’ hand, tangling their fingers together as they make their way there. They settle on the rock in silence, listening to the sound of the waves.

“Hey,” Louis says after a few minutes.

Harry looks away from the horizon, staring right at Louis’ face. “What?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Harry blushes a little, looking away, looking down at his lap, at their fingers still intertwined. “You don’t have to ask,” he replies and Louis isn’t sure why he felt compelled to, why he didn’t just reach like he already has so many times in the past month.

There’s something about this moment that feels more fragile somehow, special. Maybe it’s because he knows it’s a last and has to be cherished, maybe it’s just because there’s softness, a quiet, this morning that Louis couldn’t bear to disturb.

“I know,” Louis replies, almost a whisper. “But I wanted to.”

Harry smiles at him, curls dancing softly in the wind. “Then, yes, of course. Of course, you can kiss me.”

“Good,” Louis says, not making a move yet.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, finally reaching for Harry, bridging the gap between them.

They kiss and Louis knows it’s not going to be their last, knows they’ve got hours still before Harry has to go, but he savours every single second of it anyway. He savours the way Harry touches him, what he tastes like, the two of them on this beach. He savours the feeling of being young and feeling it for once.

When they’re done, Louis brushes Harry’s hair off his face, staring at him.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks, the closest either of them has come to acknowledge what the day represents, how precious every hour, every minute, every second, is.

“Just this,” Harry says, kissing Louis again. “Just this for now,” he adds when they pause for breath.

Louis smiles. “We can definitely do that,” he says, smile turning into a smirk without his permission. Then, he kisses Harry again. “What else though?” he insists in between two kisses.

“I want to stay here on the beach and watch the sunrise with you.”

“Done,” Louis replies. Then, he pecks Harry’s lips, short and sweet, moving backwards before they get a chance to get carried away. “What else?”

“I want to suck you off in the shower when we go back to the lighthouse.”

Louis laughs. “Definitely done,” he whispers, kissing Harry a little more filthily afterwards. “What else?”

“I want to get breakfast at the bakery.”

“Okay,” Louis nods. “Done.” He’s about to kiss Harry again when he’s interrupted.

“And! I want to spend all day in the lantern room. Or out on the gallery. I don’t know... I just… I just want to stare at this view all day. Maybe write in my diary a bit. I’ll see how I feel.”

Louis chuckles, playing a little with Harry’s curls. “Alright,” he says. “Also done.”

Harry smiles and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, eerily reminiscent of the way he used to smile, void, empty, when he first arrived on Fair Isle. Louis hated it then and he hates it now. He doesn’t want Harry to have to fake even one more smile for as long as he lives.

It passes quickly, but Louis stops Harry when he tries to kiss him again.

“I…” He clears his throat, gaze fixed on Harry’s lips instead of his eyes. “You can tell me to fuck off you know,” he finally says, a bit awkwardly. “If you want to like… enjoy the island, the lighthouse, on your own for a bit today. I… uh… I won’t be offended.”

He’ll be hurt, Louis thinks distantly, but not offended.

Harry snorts and when Louis looks up at him, the haunted look in his eyes is gone, replaced by genuine amusement, smile fully sincere.

“Now, why would I ever want that?” Harry asks before kissing Louis again.

Clifford barks somewhere in the distance, splashing about nearby. Harry lets go of him and Louis can still taste him on his tongue, can still feel him on his skin, and he wonders, absently, how long it’s going to take for the memories to pale. How long is it going to take before they start fading a little, until they’re a remote, ancient blur in the back of his mind he takes refuge in because they’re happy. Because they’re peaceful.

“Can you tell me a story?” Harry asks, another of part of their routine, another of their little traditions. “While we wait for the sunrise?” he adds.

Louis looks up at the still dark sky, at the hint of light barely peeking through. Shouldn’t be too long now. He exhales on a small laugh, shaking his head.

“I didn’t bring a book,” he comments, though surely Harry knows this.

Unsurprisingly, Harry shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “You don’t need books to tell interesting stories.”

“No,” Louis smirks. “I suppose I don’t.”

Harry smiles back at him before letting his head fall on Louis’ shoulder, cuddling up to him, eyes fixed on the sea, on the sky, on the spot on the horizon where they seem to touch.

Once the sun has properly risen, the world a bit grey and the skies covered, they stroll back to the lighthouse hand in hand. Inside, they head to the kitchen first, Louis preparing Clifford’s food while Harry sits on the floor waiting for him, letting the dog drop over him like a lug and scratching his belly. The distraction only lasts until Louis puts his bowl down and soon enough, they’re both back in Harry’s bedroom. Harry heads straight to the ensuite, washing the dog off his hands and when Louis turns back to look at him, half of his clothes are off and he’s standing bare-chested in the doorway.

“Coming?” Harry says, coquettish and fluttering his eyelids, somehow managing to look sexy and a bit silly at the same time. God, Louis never wants to not be touching this man.

“Sure hope so,” Louis jokes half-heartedly, mostly to hide how much he wants wants wants.

He can’t let it slip. He can’t let it show. He gives himself those instructions firmly as he steps forward towards the ensuite until he’s standing a breath away from Harry’s body.

“Pff,” Harry replies, hands going straight to Louis’ waist, past the sweats and the pants underneath. “Is that the wittiest you’ve got?” he asks before clicking his tongue, drawing attention to his mouth.

Louis lets out a ridiculously exaggerated moan. “Sorry, what was the question?” he says, joking again, and Harry’s grip on him slackens a little as he laughs. Which, mission accomplished, Louis thinks faintly before kissing him.

They make very good use of their shared shower, fulfilling Harry’s wish, and then some.

Once they’re done, pink skinned and squeaky clean, they help each other dry off, Louis assisting Harry with his hair softly, tenderly. They exit the bathroom still naked, both of them ignoring the forgotten clothes on the bathroom floor. Louis grabs some clean stuff instead, snorting when Harry forgoes clothing himself altogether in favour of face planting fully naked on the bed. Louis lets Harry have his dramatic moment, putting jeans and a red oversized jumper on, before giving him his full attention.

He lets himself enjoy the view for a second; the long lean legs Louis isn’t sure Harry fully knows how to use, the pale soft thighs he’s kissed and bitten so many times by now, the place where Harry’s waist narrows slightly, the curve of his spine, the handful of his arse, his shoulders broad and strong from carrying so much, his arms spread out on the bed, his hands, his fingers…

Louis inhales sharply, then looks away.

He has to. He has to look away, the knowledge that tomorrow this won’t be here anymore lodged uncomfortably in his throat: a truth he’s not ready to face.

“Oi!” he exclaims loudly to compensate. “I thought we were getting breakfast!” he tells the big pile of sleepy boy on the bed. “I’m hungry, I want pastries.”

Harry groans, clearly awake, but makes no effort to move his pretty naked bum.

“Unbelievable,” Louis says, mostly to himself. “It was your request.”

Harry, to his credit, does look up at this, but only to give Louis the most convincing puppy eyes he’s ever seen in his life.“I’m tired,” he says with a big dramatic pout.

Luckily for Louis, he grew up with an army of little siblings and also owns a dog. There’s not much in terms of cuteness that he’s not impervious to. Harry comes very close though.

“Aww, are you? Are you tired?”

“Yeah, I am. I want the pastries, but they’re so far away.”

“They’re fifteen minutes away Harry,” Louis deadpans.

“So far,” Harry repeats, obviously pretending he hasn’t heard Louis’ response.

“I am not delivering pastries in bed to you Harold,” Louis says firmly. He’s whipped, but he’s not that whipped. “That’s not happening, so get up!” Maybe if he’s stern enough, he’ll convince himself he won’t do it.

At this, Harry does turn around, fully comfortable in his nudity, eyes sparkling a bit with mischief. “Actually, I was thinking you could carry me there.”

Louis starts laughing. “In your dreams, pretty boy!”

He does end up giving Harry a piggyback ride to the bakery, his arms tight around Louis’ neck as he sings Edge of Seventeen at the top of his lungs, giving the Ooooh! Baby ooooh! a lot of power. Louis tries not to laugh, just to make sure he doesn’t drop Harry in the muddy grass on the way and they finally make it, taking twice as long as they normally would because Harry keeps moving too much and Louis almost loses his grip on him a few times.

Still, they make it eventually and they gorge themselves on Mrs Clark’s pastries without shame, the two of them laughing at Harry’s Mick Jagger impression. Once they’re done with breakfast, they sit a while longer, refilling their cuppa and enjoying a tea while holding hands in plain view of the other customers. The coffee shop is pretty much empty, of course, but it makes Louis equally nervous and excited that Harry is comfortable enough here to do that. Maybe it’s a bit risky, and a lot foolish, but as gossipy as everyone in the village is, it’s only with each other. It would never get out to the outside world, back to the mainland, Louis is certain of it. It’s not like any of them know who Harry is anyway. Still, he’s delighted and he enjoys the weight of Harry’s hand in his as they finish their second tea.

Harry gives Mrs Clark a long hug before they leave, the kind of crushing, enveloping hug that makes you want to never let go of him. He’s thanking her for her hospitality, rubbing his hand on her back, when Louis has to leave, an emotion he doesn’t want to name bubbling up his chest. He waits outside, leaning against the building, watching the pure emptiness of their village with knowing eyes. It’s just a few houses. Just one shop. There isn’t even a crappy pub. It’s deserted, looks almost dead or frozen in time if one squints the right way. Louis loves it all so much, and, for one second, he has the horribly devastating thought it might not be enough anymore once Harry leaves.

Louis shakes his head, refusing himself the luxury of such pining, of such distressing thoughts.

It’s a ridiculous fear is what it is. Louis certainly isn’t going to give it power.

Finally, after what seems like a small eternity, Harry comes out of the bakery. He’s holding a bag of pastries and Louis smiles softly. He’d bet good money that Mrs Clark gave them to him for the journey home tomorrow.

“Alright?” Harry asks when he joins him outside, leaning against the brick of the building too, his shoulders pressing against Louis’.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Harry’s smile drops a little, the corner of his mouth tilting down slightly.

“I’m okay.” Harry bites his lower lip before reaching for Louis’ hand again. “I’ve been thinking. I should really stop by the observatory on the way back. I need to say goodbye to Mr Drummond. I can’t believe I almost forgot.”

“Oh,” Louis says. It’s weird to hear it said so plainly out loud.

Harry’s saying goodbye.

Of course, Louis knew that. The whole point of today is for Harry to enjoy his favourite Fair Isle things one last time. The fact that they haven’t spelt it out plainly to each other doesn’t make it any less true. Still, it’s a bit like a punch in the gut every time he’s reminded.

“Is that alright?”

“What?” Louis asks, absently, distracted. He shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. He’s going to be mad if you leave without seeing him and then he’ll be on my case for months. He might seem like the sweetest, and he is, but this man can definitely hold a grudge.”

Harry laughs. “Let’s go,” he says, leading Louis forward.

Louis gives Harry some privacy with Mr Drummond, staying outside and watching the birds while they talk. Finally, after about twenty minutes. Harry gets out of the observatory with a serious look on his face, reminding Louis he’s probably not going to be the only missing Harry when he leaves.

“You okay?” Louis asks when Harry has been quiet a little too long as they make their way back to the lighthouse.

Harry nods, absently kicking a rock. “Sure.”

Louis winces, then smiles as he gives Harry a little nudge with his elbow. “Sounds convincing.”

At that, Harry does chuckle a little.

“I like Mr Drummond,” he says. “He has a nice way of seeing things. I’ve appreciated getting to know him. Even if I didn’t spend a crazy amount of time with him.”

“He definitely is one of a kind,” Louis agrees.

Harry hums. “Most people here seem to be,” he finally says after a long beat, giving Louis a tiny side glance before looking forward again.

When they get back to the lighthouse, they head straight for the lantern room, staying bundled up as Harry grabs his guitar from the bench and they make their way outside on the gallery. They side down next to each other, Harry strumming and humming, while Louis closes his eyes and dozes off a little to the sound of his voice. His wonderfully soothing voice.

They waste the afternoon talking about nothing and everything, snuggled close on top of the lighthouse. Louis is in his favourite place in the world with one of his favourite people. How beautiful it is for him to have this. How tragic it is that it can’t last.

They cook dinner together while listening to music and they slow dance to some soft instrumental French jazz while the pasta cook, Harry dipping Louis just as the water starts boiling a little too enthusiastically, overflowing from under the lid while Louis shrieks at Harry to bring him back up, half yelling, half laughing.

“We’re gonna burn the pasta!” Louis yells with a laugh, trying to get back up while Harry laughs and laughs, almost dropping him on the floor.

“You can’t burn pasta, at worst they’ll be overcooked,” Harry manages to say between hiccups of laughter and his grip slackens on the dip of Louis’ waist.

“You can definitely burn pasta and don’t you dare drop me, Harry Styles!” Louis threatens, but he’s laughing too hard to be taken seriously.

“So...Sorry,” Harry says and it’s too late now, they’re going down, Harry kneeling on the floor as he tries to soften Louis’ fall.

“You oaf!” Louis says softly, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist, both of them tangled together on the floor.

“Oops,” Harry replies before kissing Louis.

Clifford ends up investigating what they’re doing on the floor like that, his cold nose making Harry yelp when he presses it against the back of his neck and Louis can’t stop laughing at the look of utter betrayal on Harry’s face.

They do burn the pasta, what was previously spaghetti becoming a solid brick stuck to the bottom of Louis’ pan.

In his defence, Harry looks a bit sheepish.

“So we left it too long on high,” Harry declares, trying to unstick the noodles with a fork.

“You think?” Louis says sarcastically.

“Should I make us a sandwich then?” Harry offers. “I’m pretty sure there’s chicken leftover from that roast I made the other night.”

“Works for me.”

So they eat sandwiches and once they’re done with the dishes – destroyed pan non-included – they go back on top of the lighthouse at Harry’s insistence.

Louis can’t blame him. He’s seen it happen with more than one guest about to leave. They get a bit desperate, want to soak up as much of the view, of the vibe, of the atmosphere, as possible before they have to go back to their regular lives. Dull. Predictable. Nothing like the sea here.

Though of course, Louis can’t imagine there’s anything dull or predictable about the life Harry is going back to and maybe that’s why he wants to enjoy this as much as possible. He gets the same thing out of Fair Isle that Louis does after all. They’re two peas in a pod, the rare few who actually understand this place.

Around half past eight, Harry lets out a long painful sigh and Louis looks over his shoulder from where he’s cuddled up in front of him to catch his face.

“I need to go pack at some point,” he explains when their eyes meet. He doesn’t need to elaborate, doesn’t need to tell Louis why he put it off until the very last second.

“Need help?” Louis offers, unwilling to let Harry out of his sight for even one more second today.

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry says dismissively, but the way he’s holding on to Louis, the way he keeps his cheek pressed against Louis’ stubble, tells a different story.

“I want to,” Louis whispers, stroking Harry’s hand on his tummy, from the tips of his fingers to his wrist, over and over.

“I’ve gathered most of my stuff already,” Harry says and Louis knows, he’s noticed. He’s noticed the way Harry stopped leaving things here and there in every room the past few days. He’s noticed the way he’s been picking up things he’s always left around the building before, slowly deleting his presence from the lighthouse.

Louis hates it.

He hums in response though. “Want us to do a last sweep of the rooms just in case?”

“I don’t really want to move,” Harry admits. “But I probably should do that. Like you said, just in case. I mean, most of my things are in my room already, but you know. Better be careful.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “I mean, your guitar and your journal are both up here and I’m assuming they’re quite important,” he says, a bit cheeky. “Imagine what else you could leave behind if you don’t double check.”

Harry shakes his head and Louis can feel him smile. “I’m definitely not going to forget my guitar.”

Louis shrugs. “You never know.”

They stay silent for a bit, still cuddling instead of getting up, and Louis presses his lips tight together, stopping himself from smiling or crying, or both. Choosing to enjoy it for a few more seconds.

Finally, after they’ve stretched it too long, Louis says: “ready?” and they untangle themselves, getting up from the bench and stretching a little. Harry picks up his guitar and his journal while Louis carefully makes his way around the room, thoroughly making sure none of Harry’s belongings is still up here. There are a few discarded jumpers Harry has left around, but all of them belong to the b&b already.

“I think we’re clear up here,” Louis declares after a bit and Harry nods.

“Alright, let’s get back to the cottage,” he says, but he makes no move to go down. Instead, he looks through the windows.

It’s dark outside already, of course, it is, but Louis lets him have his moment. He walks around him, presses a small kiss on his cheek, whispering “take your time” before going down the stairs.

Louis has the time to check both the basement for any forgotten laundry and the kitchen before Harry joins him in the living room. He’s been thorough and Louis hasn’t found a single item belonging to him yet.

“Kitchen was alright,” Harry says softly when he walks in, Louis’ nose buried in one of his bookcases.

“Basement too,” Louis replies without looking at him, finger going over the titles. “You’ve done a good job,” he adds, smirking when he finds what he wanted and takes two books out of the bookcase.

“These definitely aren’t mine,” Harry says with a small smile when Louis looks back at him.

They’re two cheesy romance novels, of course, they are, and Louis shrugs. “You’ll need some reading material on the way back. This one has quite a scandalous straight sex scene in a Viscount’s gardens,” Louis says showing Harry the red cover. “Should be to your taste,” he jokes and Harry rolls his eyes but he doesn’t contradict Louis.

“Aren’t I supposed to leave a book if I want to take one?” Harry comments as he starts looking around the living room, on the windowsill and the chest.

“Let’s say we’ll make an exception for you,” Louis says even though he’s not the first, and certainly won’t be the last to leave with a book without an exchange.

“That’s generous.”

“Well, that’s me to a T,” Louis jokes as he makes his way to the sofa where a familiar ugly cardigan rests.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. “It really is.” He pauses and it’s only when Louis picks up the cardigan that he starts talking again. “Oh, I can’t take that. That’s yours.”

“You adopted it, Harry,” Louis protests straight up, putting the offending material over one of his shoulders. “You can’t leave it behind. What kind of father are you? Just ‘cause your child’s ugly doesn’t mean you get to walk out, you know.”

“It’s part of your collection,” Harry argues. “The cardigan stays.”

“The cardigan definitely goes.”

“But –”

“I will smuggle it in your bag while you sleep if you keep arguing with me, Harold.”

“Fine,” Harry replies and there’s a little something in his eyes, a happiness Louis knows how to read. He won’t say so, but he’s pleased he gets to keep his monstrosity, Louis knows it.

Once they’ve fully checked the living room and the dining room, they have a quick look around reception, finding only a couple of items in total, most noticeably socks bunched in one corner of the dining room that Louis has no idea how they ended up there. It’s not like they spend a lot of time in that room. Still. Soon enough, they’re mostly done and they make their way up to Harry’s room to pack it all up. Louis helps Harry with rolling all of his clothes tight so they’ll all fit in his bag. Harry keeps an outfit aside for the next day and they put the books on top so he’ll have easy access to them during the journey. Finally, Harry puts his guitar carefully back in its case.

They do it all in silence, tension in the air.

Louis tries to think of what to say at a time like this, but he feels a little empty, like everything would come out bland and colourless, when all that’s inside of him is exploding with vibrancy, painful but joyful both at the same time, everything Harry’s touched vibrating on a frequency of too much.

So they do it all in silence and once everything in the room except Louis’ things has been packed and tucked away, they stand in the middle of it, staring at each other, not knowing what to do.

The light turns off without warning, half eleven, and they keep looking at each other in the darkness, eyes adjusting to the shadows.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, hand reaching out for him and they meet in the middle, bodies colliding with more force than Louis anticipated, more desperation.

They fumble in the dark, making their way to the bed blindly, unwilling to stop touching, to stop kissing, to get to their goal faster.

They tumble down in a tangle of limbs.

&

The next morning, Louis blinks awake to the sight of two wide green eyes staring at him and a heaviness sitting on his chest. He swallows down the heaviness, tries to chase it away, but it’s settled firmly, clawed in deep beneath his breastbone. Harry is leaving today.

“Hey,” Louis barely whispers, afraid to disturb the tranquillity of this moment. If the day truly begins, that makes it real. If they get up from this bed, Harry really has to go.

“Hey,” Harry echoes, just as gently, eyes roaming Louis’ face, an emotion Louis can’t name clouding them.

Louis reaches out for him absently, almost without noticing until his fingers brush Harry’s jaw softly.

“Slept okay?” Louis asks, still caressing Harry’s face. He’s not sure why he’s being so mundane when they both know what’s happening in a couple of hours. It’s not like they can really tiptoe around it. But Louis doesn’t want to be the first to acknowledge it and he’s pretty sure Harry feels the same.

Harry shakes his head, tightening his fingers on Louis’ waist, holding him steady. “No,” he admits. “I couldn’t sleep at all.”

It explains the dark circles under his eyes, the tired way he’s holding himself.

Louis exhales a small sigh, moving a smidge closer to Harry’s body. They’re pressed so tightly together already it seems almost impossible, but Louis manages. “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes closing for a second when one of Harry’s hands slides into his hair, soft, soothing. He could almost fall asleep again, with the warmth of Harry’s body against his. But the heaviness keeps him wide awake, hyperaware. He has to say goodbye today. He’s not sure how he’s meant to do that.

“S’alright,” Harry replies and when Louis opens his eyes again, he looks almost reverent. “I used my time efficiently,” he adds, mostly to himself, gaze never wavering.

Not for the first time, Louis feels like he’s being memorised. It aches a lot more today of all days because it’s Harry’s last chance to do it. And the way he stubbornly refuses to blink, the way he’s holding on, eyes never moving away from Louis’ face; Harry knows it too. So Louis looks at Harry right back, doing some memorising of his own, tracing every single detail of his face so it stays imprinted in his brain forever. So he’ll never forget the sight of Harry in the cold winter light, eyes soft green as he stares and stares. So he’ll never forget the specks of gold in his eyes, the dark fuzz over his upper lip, the beauty spot between his cheek and his chin, his small quirky ears. Louis watches him like a hawk, silently promising himself to never forget a thing, to remember this version of Harry, this version of Harry no one but him got to see.

“Louis,” Harry says after they’ve been staring at each other far longer than they should and he sounds a bit frazzled, frantic.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Louis reassures, thumb still stroking the skin of Harry’s cheeks, the rest of his fingers buried deep in Harry’s hair as he holds him in place. “I’m here.”

“Louis,” Harry says again, a bit more desperate this time, before kissing him.

One last time, Louis thinks distantly as Harry starts struggling to take his top off between frantic kisses, rolling them over so he’s lying on top of him. Better enjoy it.

“Hey,” Louis says between kissing, holding Harry off a little, hands holding his shoulders so he can’t lean down again. “Slow down, yeah?”

Harry nods. “Slow,” he agrees, even though they don’t have the time for it.

It softens after that, passion replaced by unhurried worship as they kiss, as they touch, as they gasp, as they tremble.

After, they’re reluctant to part, naked bodies fully pressed together, not a sliver of space between them. Harry’s head is buried in Louis’ neck, legs intertwined, torso touching everywhere as they breathe against each other, as they breathe each other in. As long as they’re not getting up, it’s not real yet. Louis clings to the thought, just as he clings to the small of Harry’s back, fingers digging into the dimples at the bottom of his spine. Harry presses a kiss on Louis’ collarbone, soft, barely there, a featherlike touch that burns still. It’s almost enough to reignite them and Louis considers it, considers making Harry come again, considers enjoying another last time, but Harry moves from his collarbone to his neck, then to his jaw. He presses soft kisses on Louis’ skin, almost absently, not trying to rile him up or start anything, but just because he can, he still can, he’s not gone yet. And Louis settles into the moment.

After a beat, Harry lifts his head and they look at each other.

“Louis, I’m –” Harry starts saying and Louis can’t, he just can’t do this, so he kisses Harry quiet, kisses him thoroughly because if any of their kisses this morning can be the last one, he’s going to make sure they all make a lasting impression.

They have to get out of bed eventually and it doesn’t even hurt as much as Louis anticipated. This weird mental barrier he erected to protect himself and here he is, crossing it, and he’s still in one piece. He hasn’t shattered. Weird how the world works sometimes, Louis can’t help but ponder as he stands naked in the middle of Harry’s room. They slowly make their way to the ensuite to shower together, Harry jokingly claiming he’s never travelled covered in bodily fluids and he’s not going to start now, and Louis laughs because he’s pretty sure it’s a lie. He laughs because turns out he’s really going to miss this man. They wash each other’s hair carefully and Louis presses small kisses behind Harry’s right ear once he’s sure his hair is properly rinsed off.

Once they step out of the shower, they dry each other off between kisses, leaving the towels on the floor for Louis to find later. Louis puts on his jeans from the day before and without thinking, grabs the discarded jumper Harry wore to bed. It’s still skin warm and smells like him, enveloping Louis like Harry’s hugs do. Harry, on the other hand, picks up the sweats and hoodie he’d selected the night before for comfort and kept aside, and puts them on in silence. Once he’s fully dressed, socks and vans on, he reaches for his green jacket.

“Here,” Louis says, “I’ll help you.” He grabs Harry’s bag, the one they so carefully packed together the night before and puts it on his shoulder. Then, he grabs Harry’s guitar case, handing it over to him.

“I…” Harry says when their fingers touch. “Thanks.”

Louis reaches for his phone on his side of the bed, clicking it open and swallowing hard when he sees they’re almost out of time.

“Boat will be in real soon, you’ll have to hurry if you want to make it to port in time,” he comments in a strangled voice.

It’s too soon. It’s too soon. He’s not done yet, he’s not ready.

“Right,” Harry says and he follows silently when Louis leaves the room, leading them downstairs into the reception area.

Like he knows, Clifford is sitting next to the door and he gives Harry a big sad look when they arrive downstairs.

“Cliff,” Harry calls, putting his guitar and his coat down, getting to his knees in front of Louis’ dog, wrapping him into a big hug. Clifford whines a little, either because Harry’s hugging him too tight or because he’s sad, or both. Harry lets go of him at the sound, choosing to kiss his face over and over instead, laughing when Clifford gives him a big lick in response. “You were the best walking companion,” Harry tells him and Louis is so moved by the dedication, the sincerity, of this farewell that he can’t even feel jealous. “And the best cuddler,” Harry adds. “Just… the best company I could have ever hoped for Cliff.”

Louis smiles with his lips pressed tight together, because if he doesn’t he might cry.

“They do say dogs resemble their owners a lot,” Harry whispers after a beat, going for the jugular every single time. He looks up at Louis, offering him a devastating smile before saying: “I guess it must be true.”

Louis inhales quietly before replying, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Yeah?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.” He looks back down at Clifford, smiling more sadly now when Louis’ dog just drops to the floor and rolls on his back, begging for belly scratches. “Oh, I wish I had time,” Harry tells him sadly, scratching his belly anyway. “I wish…” he cuts himself off.

Louis looks down at the phone still in his hand, at the time that keeps on ticking and ticking. Harry has to go now, he has to leave or he’ll miss the boat. And if he misses the boat, who knows when there’ll be a next one? They’ve got a storm due in the next few days, planes and ferries are probably going to be cancelled. Harry would be trapped a little longer. Louis tries very hard not to think about how great that would be. Instead, he clears his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt, but you’re gonna miss the boat if you don’t leave now.”

It’s probably the hardest sentence he’s ever had to say, yet it comes out perfectly fine, steady, without a hint of hesitation.

“Yeah,” Harry says, still focused on Clifford. He gives him one last kiss, then gets up.

First, he reaches for his military green coat, sliding it on. He reaches underneath to free his hood, putting it on and hiding most of his face. Then, he holds his hand out to get his bag from Louis.

“I can come with you!” Louis blurts out. “To the port, I mean. Help you carry your things.”

But Harry shakes his head straight away, denying him a few last minutes together. “No,” he says. “It’s fine. I don’t want to trouble you with that.”

“It’s no trouble,” Louis says softly, sadly. “Harry, it’s –”

“It’s fine,” Harry insists kindly. “I’ve got it.”

So Louis doesn’t argue. He simply slides the bag off his shoulder and watches as Harry picks it up. He looks down at his guitar case for a second before bending to pick it up too.

“Well,” Louis says awkwardly, not sure what one is supposed to say in those circumstances.

Every word seems useless, every sentiment too small.

“Well,” Harry repeats, bouncing on his feet a little. He’s nervous. If his hands were free, Louis would bet he’d be fiddling with his elastic band right now.

“It’s…” Louis starts saying before shaking his head and chuckling. “It’s been a pleasure to have you, Mr Pop Star,” is what he finally settles on, extending his hand for Harry to shake.

Harry frowns deeply at the sight. He looks down at Louis’ hand, huffs, then shakes his head, before putting his guitar down again and slamming his body into Louis’, the force of the hug making them both stumble backwards.

Louis can’t stay anything, has had the wind knocked out of him, so he holds Harry back as best as he can, tries to pour everything that he’s feeling into the hug, his arms wrapped around Harry’s neck.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers in his ear, voice cracking, and Louis closes his eyes. “Just… thank you. You have no idea…” he stops himself and Louis can feel him shaking a little. “Thank you, Louis.”

Suddenly, Louis finds himself blubbering, unable to keep quiet anymore. “You… you don’t have to thank me,” he replies, disbelieving. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.” He pauses, squeezing Harry really tight. “I didn’t do anything,” he replies, in a whisper, mostly to himself.

It makes Harry laugh, low and wet, like maybe he’s crying. “You have no idea,” he whispers back. Then, just as abruptly as he reached for Louis, he lets go.

He grabs his guitar, keeping his head down for as long as possible and when he finally looks up to give Louis a forced smile, his eyes look a bit red. “I’ll see you around,” he says softly – a blatant lie and they both know it – before walking out of the door, out of Louis’ life.

Clifford barks after him, scratching at the closed door. Then, he whines.

Louis stays frozen for a second, heart pounding in his chest, before he turns around and starts running, past the kitchen and the door leading to the basement, through the annexe and past his bedroom, up and up and up the spiral staircase, out the door in the lantern room and onto the gallery. He walks around until he finds the perfect viewpoint, hair in the wind, hands gripping the railing, as he watches Harry becoming smaller and smaller and smaller, until he’s but a dot on the horizon, until Louis can’t see him at all, until he’s finally truly left.

Then, only then, Louis lets himself sit down, back against the tower, panting shakily.


	11. Chapter 11

The first few days after Harry leaves, Louis can’t believe how quiet the lighthouse is. It’s like he’s forgotten somehow, how much time he’s spent in this building on his own in the past. It’s like he’s forgotten how to have one-sided conversations with his dog the way he used to, a stream of consciousness leaving his mouth without shame with no expectation that someone will reply. Now, he keeps expecting Harry to pipe up with some clever, or not so clever, line. Every time he babbles in Clifford’s direction, there’s a part of him waiting for Harry’s comment, Harry’s laughter. Some terrible joke Louis would laugh at only because Harry looks so cute telling it. But Harry’s gone and there’s an empty space haunting the building where he used to be, a loud absence that Louis tries his best to ignore, tiptoeing around it like that will make things better.

Louis is fine though. He doesn’t cry himself to sleep every night or anything like that. He doesn’t mope in bed, wasting the days away because his suitor left him. Sure, maybe he’s taken to sleeping in the room Harry rented, cuddled up against Clifford’s body so he doesn’t feel too alone at night, but that doesn’t mean he’s not fine. Sure, he might not have washed the sheets yet, scared of getting rid of Harry’s fading smell, but that doesn’t mean he’s not fine. He knew what to expect, after all, knew all along it would come to this. Harry never made any promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t leave Louis broken-hearted and feeling used. They knew what they were doing all along, knew how ephemeral the two of them were doomed to be.

It’s fine.

So what if, five days after Harry’s departure, Louis has the crushing thought that he’s probably in love with someone he can never have?

It hits him while he’s washing the windows outside the lantern room. He’s out on the gallery, the big sponge in his hands squeaking against the glass as he makes big circular motions, not thinking about anything specific when the overwhelming, yet obvious, realisation that he’s in love with Harry and he can’t do anything about it pops into his head. The overwhelming, yet obvious, realisation that he’s already lost him to life and their mismatched circumstances. That he’s never going to get the chance to tell him.

He loves Harry. What a useless, elating feeling.

Louis drops the sponge as soon as he thinks it and it falls back into the soapy bucket at his feet with a splash. He’s too dazed to notice though, too focused on the way his heart expands in his chest until it feels like it won’t fit anymore, too full of feelings he can’t hold in. He presses his palms against the windows he’s just cleaned, needing the support to hold himself up. He exhales shakily as he presses his forehead on the glass, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He inhales deeply. Then exhales, slow, controlled. Then, he does it again. The wind whistles around him. It’s probably loud, Louis thinks vaguely, but it comes across as faint and distant. He blinks, eyes wet. Louis blinks and he breathes. He waits, and waits, but the tears don’t come, grief and love both stuck in his throat with no outlet.

Maybe it’s not so fine after all.

Still, he tries not to let those newfound feelings affect him too much. Harry left. There’s nothing Louis can do about that. All he can do is try to keep himself as busy as possible so the place in his soul where he’s aching doesn’t get to thrive too much. So he putters around the b&b as normal, cleaning up all the rooms except Harry’s and ordering supplies in bulk for the new season. His next guests are coming in less than a month and Louis’ establishment has a reputation to maintain.

He’s a bit mad at himself that he got through almost all of his maintenance tasks though, leaving him in need of a lot of creativity to keep himself occupied. He has to do quite a lot to get the small voice in the back of his head that wants him to curl up and indulge in his devastation to shut the fuck up. Still, he buzzes in and out of the cottage, making sure everything is okay, waking before five o’clock every single morning and going to bed way past one every single night. He sleeps fitfully and he knows he’s probably going to crash, but he’s running on a high of denial and as long as there’s energy in his body, Louis is going to use it.

It all comes to a halt ten days after Harry’s departure, five days after Louis has realised he was in love with him all along.

He wakes up sad that morning, but he shakes it off, reminding himself viciously in front of the mirror that he’s _fine_. His reflection just blinks sleepily back at him, dark circles under his eyes and he looks aged. With his beard untrimmed, he finally looks like the hermit his extended family claims that he is. It took years for him to get there, but he finally did. He almost wants to send them a selfie so they can laugh at his complete and utter misery.

He doesn’t, of course. He gets dressed in silence, then goes for a run with Clifford, leaving his phone on his dresser, unable to bear the thought of listening to music Harry carefully selected for him. When he gets back to the lighthouse, he feeds Clifford and gets to work.

By noon, Louis is forced to admit he’s got nothing left to do except clean up Harry’s bedroom.

He goes through the motions, taking the sheets that smell like him and Clifford by now more than they smell like Harry off the bed with gritted teeth. It’s alright, Louis tells himself as he bunches them up and throws them in a laundry basket. It doesn’t matter, he thinks as he strips the pillows off their cases and puts them on top of the sheets. He saves the duvet for last, holding it to his chest and closing his eyes, inhaling deeply as he searches for a trace, a hint, of the man he’s trying to learn how to live without.

“Don’t be stupid,” Louis tells himself unkindly, taking the cover off the duvet and throwing it in the basket too.

By the time he’s made it to the basement and has put everything in the washing machine, there are tears streaming down his cheeks.

He sits down, back to the wall, arms wrapped around his legs, forehead pressed to his knees and waits. He listens to the loud rumbling of his washing machine, breathing deeply in the dark. It’ll pass, he knows it will. Like most sorrows, one day he’ll wake up finding himself able to breathe again. Until then though, he has to endure.

When the cycle is done, Louis hangs everything up to dry automatically, trying his hardest to keep his mind blank as he puts everything on the washing line that stretches in his basement.

Once that’s done, Louis gets back upstairs and makes his way through the corridor leading to the tower then goes straight to his bedroom. He opens the closet, grabbing a black travel bag and dropping it on the floor in the middle of his room. Then, Louis starts randomly packing clothes, grabbing whatever is nearest and clean, mostly sweatpants and comfy tees.

It’s impulsive, and probably a little stupid in his state, but he can’t bear the sight of the lighthouse any longer. He doesn’t have any reservations until mid-April and he’ll be damned if he spends the next few weeks roaming the building aimlessly while pretending to be busy, like a ghost trapped on Earth with unfinished business. Every single corner of his home is full of memories he’s a bit too fragile to confront straight away. He’ll be fine – he _is_ fine – he just needs a distraction. He needs something to keep his mind occupied until the b&b starts buzzing with excited tourists and their chatters. He needs a break from the quiet, the quiet that used to be his salvation, that Harry cherished so much. It’s filled with absence now rather than comfort and Louis knows it won’t always be this way, but for now, he needs some noise, needs cacophony, to keep his brain away from what he’s missing.

There’s only one place on Earth that Louis knows of that can provide exactly what he needs, so once he’s done packing his bag, he grabs his phone and dials Roger’s number. Leaving Fair Isle is always a bit of a gamble, between the temperamental weather that makes them inaccessible for days on end and the ferry and flights schedule being so sparse. Louis is determined though and he knows _The Good Shepherd IV_ is dropping some goods tomorrow morning. Weather permitting, he’ll be on his way to Shetland in less than twenty-four hours.

The next morning, Louis locks up the b&b, double-checking every window is safely closed and locked, before walking to the marina north of the island with Clifford in tow. They wait patiently as Roger unpacks the boat and chats with locals, before climbing the small ferry. He’s waved off by the few friends who are awake and near the port, and Louis doesn’t know why he thought his spontaneous vacation would go unnoticed. Still, soon enough, him, Clifford and Roger are well on their way to Lerwick. Louis can’t explain it, but the minute he’s off the island it’s like his chest expands and he can finally breathe, fresh salty air filling his lungs deeply as Fair Isle becomes smaller and smaller. Thankfully, the weather is kind enough and while still rocky, the journey isn’t too bad and they make it to Shetland in good time. Louis is used to it of course, not likely to get sick, but he’s glad to be back on the ground as he hugs Roger goodbye. He’s only got an hour to kill before his ferry to Aberdeen so he grabs a meal deal from Tesco and eats it by the sea.

He calls his mother just before boarding, revealing to her that he’s on his way, and while the connection is shite, the line crackly between them, the shriek of joy that comes out of her mouth seem to indicate she’s excited to see him. He’s staying for at least a week, he reveals, putting some effort in faking joy, not wanting her to worry, and she starts babbling about all the fun things he’ll get to do with his younger siblings while he’s there. He cuts her off when she starts planning menus for him, laughing sincerely this time when he assures her that she doesn’t need to go out of her way for him.

The ferry to Aberdeen takes around twelve hours, so he won’t be on the mainland until past midnight. He’s hardly going to be in the mood for a night bus down to Yorkshire so he quickly books himself a room in Aberdeen on his phone before buying a ticket for the earliest train to Doncaster the next morning. He could have planned this better, probably, but Louis doesn’t care. He was too eager, too desperate, for anything else.

Louis reads the two novels he’s brought for his vacation on the Ferry and by the time he’s in his hotel room that night, he tosses and turns, unable to fall asleep. He must doze off at some point because his alarm wakes him up at five am and he swears under his breath, pushing Clifford’s body gently off his before stumbling into the bathroom for a piss with eyes half closed. They get to the train station with thirty minutes to spare, grabbing a tea and pastry at Greggs before waiting for the LNER on platform three.

His mum picks him up from the station with his youngest siblings, eyeing him suspiciously when he stays kneeling on the ground, both arms wrapped around the smallest twins for a beat too long, moved beyond words at the way they’ve grown in the months he’s been away. He’s seen pictures and he’s skyped, but it’s different seeing them for real, the way they’ve changed while he looked away. He blinks away tears of too much-ness before wrapping his mother in her own hug, feeling some restlessness in him settle when she squeezes hard. She can probably tell there’s something wrong, after all, she always could, but she distracts Ernest and Doris away from Clifford and leads them all to the car without asking.

She gives him small subtle concerned glances on the drive home, but she lets the twins babble about the various things they’ve been up to and doesn’t say a thing. Louis learns all about his brother’s piano lesson and his sister’s new best friends as he nods and _aw_ s appropriately.

It’s Monday and most of the rest of his siblings are still in school when they get to the house, so they eat lunch just the four of them, Louis already helping his mother make spaghetti as soon as he drops his bag in what used to be his, then Lottie’s, room and is now more of a guest bedroom than anything else. Half of the family is missing, but the meal is loud and messy, just like when he was a kid, just like he needed. Louis basks in the comfort of it all, in the knowledge that Harry hasn’t crossed his mind once since he saw his mum, his brain too distracted by everything that’s happening. The twins try to feed Clifford pieces of meat from the spaghetti sauce and their mother reprimands them while Louis laughs until she starts reprimanding him too for letting them get away with it.

Louis has missed this.

He’s pretty exhausted from an intense two days of travel, but he does his best to stay awake. First, he helps his mum with the dishes, before they all settle in front of a kids show he’s not familiar with to fold laundry together. Back in the day, Louis knew every single kid program on the telly because he spent so much time babysitting his sisters. Now, he doesn’t even own a television and he indulges in Netflix on his computer only very rarely. It’s strange to think about the way his life has so dramatically changed through the years. He loves it though, despite the longing for a Harry-shaped body in his bed, he loves his life.

By the time they get through the laundry, the girls have come back from secondary school, shrieking in the entry as soon as they spot Clifford running towards them.

Louis gives his mother a look and she shrugs.

“Didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” she admits as the girls spill into the living, jumping on Louis and play fighting to figure who gets to hug him first.

He distracts more than helps while his sisters do their homework. When his stepfather gets back home, everyone pitches in as they prepare dinner together. It’s even louder and more chaotic than lunch.

It’s perfect.

After dinner, Louis can barely keep his eyes open and Daisy keeps pointing it out and making fun of him as they do the dishes, but he fights sleep as long as possible, wanting to enjoy spending time with his siblings as much as possible. He puts the younger twins to bed, reading them a story and doing all the voices, heart twisting painfully in his chest as he remembers doing the same for Harry time and time again. He sighs and closes the book once Ernest and Doris are both asleep. It feels like he’s missing something new about Harry every time he turns around.

Louis is powerless to stop the feelings though, so he just goes back downstairs, wrapping himself in a blanket with a mug of tea as the rest of the family settles in to watch a documentary about Scottish Wildcats. Clifford is comfortably sleeping at his feet, happy to be petted by both Daisy and Phoebe who are sitting on the floor on both sides of him. Fizzy is mostly texting from her armchair, but once in a while, she’ll stretch her leg to poke Louis’ shoulder in what he knows how to read as affection. When the documentary finishes, Dan puts on another one, but at the halfway mark, people start trickling out of the living room to head to bed. Soon enough, it’s just him and his mother yawning in front of the telly.

Which, of course, is exactly when she ambushes him, armed with motherly concerns and good intentions.

“So,” she says, and any hope Louis had that this wasn’t going to be a serious conversation vanishes at the tone of her voice.

“So,” Louis echoes, keeping his eyes fixed on the documentary.

Jay mutes the television pointedly, moving from the armchair in the corner to Louis’ sofa, settling next to him.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing home?”

Jay was one of the first people in his life to fully support his move to Fair Isle. She was the first person he told, back when it was nothing more than an impulse, a burning desire bright in his chest that he couldn’t extinguish no matter how much he tried to talk himself out of it. She understood, somehow, when he told her he felt like he belonged there. To his mother’s credit, she never told him no, never said it was a bad idea. She never shied away from telling him how hard it was going to be, but his mother is not the kind of woman to discourage her children from following their hearts. Whether it means loving someone of the same sex, or fucking off to a remote island in Scotland. In Louis’ case, both. She’s proud of him, he knows that. She tells him any chance she gets, reminds him how much she admires him for all that he’s accomplished.

And yet, she never stops calling Doncaster his home, never stops seeing his returns to Yorkshire as homecomings, no matter how many times he calls Fair Isle his true home in front of her. She doesn’t quite get it, he thinks, even though she says she does. Still, it’s a lifelong habit Louis has stopped trying to break her out of a long time ago.

“Can’t I visit?” Louis asks with a shrug. “There doesn’t need to be a special reason.”

Jay hums.

“It’s just for fun,” he lies, even though they both know he’s going to spill at some point. “I don’t know if you remember, but I didn’t come home for Christmas this year. S’been ages. I can barely recognise the twins.”

“Which ones,” Jay jokes and he was talking about how much Doris and Ernest have grown, but Daisy and Phoebe are becoming little women too, leaving childhood behind way quicker than Louis would have thought.

Still, he laughs.

“I do remember,” Jay continues seriously and when he looks up at her, she doesn’t look particularly amused. “I miss you when you’re away. Of course, I know you’ve missed Christmas because of work. And I also remember you saying your winter guest was leaving mid-march and here you are, right after he’s gone, looking sad. So please, don’t try to bullshit me about some last minute holiday before the season begins, honey. I know you too well.”

Louis’ face falls and he closes his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says on an exhale.

He hears his mother sighs. “You know,” she begins and he opens his eyes just in time to watch her wipe away a solitary tear, “all those years, you’ve lived all alone. So isolated… But I was never worried. I was never worried even when everyone told me I should be because you’ve always looked so happy when you came home. You’ve always sounded happy on the phone. When you called yesterday ? You didn’t sound happy. At all. And when I picked you up this afternoon? You looked even worse.”

“Okay,” Louis simply says. He sighs, a long, tired exhale that comes from the depths of his body. “You’re right. I’m really sad right now,” he admits, voice cracking on the admission. “But I came here to distract myself and stop thinking about it. I don’t want you to be worried, but I just… I really don’t want to talk about it. Not right now. You get that, right?”

Jay reaches for him, wrapping him into a hug that has his back cracking. “You’re my son. I love you. I’m never not going to be upset that you’re sad. But if you don’t want to talk about it, of course, I’ll respect that.”

“Thank you,” Louis says into her shoulders, squeezing her tightly right back. “I promise you… It’s… it’s nothing that won’t get better in time, alright?”

They separate, Jay looking deeply into his eyes, surely trying to read his soul the way she’s always magically been able to.

“Are you sure?”

Louis isn’t. He doesn’t know that this love is something that’s ever going to fade and go away, but he’s hoping, praying, that it’ll fade a little, that one day it won’t be as tender when pressed, that the bruise, while still present, won’t throb the way it does now.

He has no guarantee, but he can hope, so he nods.

&

The one week he was planning on spending at his mum’s house stretches into two, and by the time Louis is back on the ferry towards Lerwick, bag filled with books his sisters and him hunted for in charity shops all around Doncaster, he feels ready to attack the new season with a smile on his face. He hurts, still, can’t really imagine a time when he won’t, but he refuses to let a heartache ruin his summer. His guests deserve an amazing experience and if he has to fake smile his way to early September, Louis will.

Roger is happy to see him, wrapping him into a big hug before Louis climbs aboard the ferry back to Fair Isle, clapping his shoulder a few times before letting him go. He even gives Clifford a treat before they embark on the last two hours of their journey back home.

Louis is pretty tired, but when the lighthouse finally appears in the distance, he can’t help the lurch his heart gives at the sight. It’s not fully unpleasant, partly pain and grief yes, but mostly satisfaction that he’s back home, that he can do this. He can recover.

The key jams a little in the lock and Louis ends up having to push the door open with his hip, Clifford running inside as soon it barges open and Louis stumbles inside, cursing his dog affectionately.

“Idiot,” Louis is mumbling when he steps into a pile of mail that’s been accumulating on the floor during his absence.

He leaves his bag near the reception desk, taking his jacket off and leaving it on the counter before finally bending down to grab what he assumes are various bills and political pamphlets. Louis truly doesn’t understand why companies insist on sending him paper copies of everything when he’s ticked the ‘email’ billing on every single one of his accounts multiple times.

He starts walking down the corridor towards the living room as he’s flipping through the envelopes, mumbling “boring, boring, boring” under his breath with every new useless piece of junk he’s received. He pushes the living room door open with his hip, whistling for Clifford to join him as he walks towards the sofa when his heart stops in his chest. He drops half the envelopes on the floor, eyes wide as he stares at the postcard he’s received.

His heart must have started beating again at some point because it’s loud in his ears, the _thump thump thump_ indicating that he’s so alive is the only sound he can hear in this quiet universe. Clifford patters into the room, nudging him behind the knees and for a second Louis thinks he might fall down at the push, unsteady on his feet as he stares at where the card says _Greetings from Cheshire._

His hands are shaking, Louis thinks distantly, staring at the way they hold the postcard like they belong to a stranger. Were they always so thin, the skin rough from manual labour? Has his skin always been so tan? The card looks at him, sentient, mocking, and Louis almost doesn’t want to flip it, fear like he’s never felt before growing in his belly.

What if it’s not what he wants desperately?

Somehow, he makes it to the sofa, leaving a trail of bills on the floor. He sits, overjoyed, terrified, and doesn’t read the card.

He stares and stares, until it goes straight past ridiculous, and verging on pathetic.

“I’m going to read this postcard,” Louis tells Clifford, still not turning it around.

Clifford barks, settling at his feet and lifting his face, big dark eyes supportive.

“I am,” Louis insists and then he does, because he’s a grown-up goddamn it, and being in love with Harry sure as hell won’t incapacitate him.

When Louis flips it around, it reads as such:

_04/04/19_

_Dear Louis,_

_I’m celebrating one year of sobriety today. It both feels huge and little at the same time. My mum and my sister baked me a cake. We had dinner in the garden even though it wasn’t that warm._

_It was lovely though. I’m off to LA to meet my manager in a few days. Mum’s worried and I don’t know how to make it better. I think she’d want me to stay with her forever, just to make sure I’m safe if she had her ways. I suppose I can’t blame her.  I’m gonna be honest, it felt weird that you weren’t there, eating cake with me to celebrate that huge success…_

_Anyway, I hope you’re well._

_x H_

 

There are so many emotions swirling through him at a rapid pace that Louis barely has the time to identify them. Joy, relief, longing, disappointment, fondness, pride… they all mix into one overwhelming bittersweet kind of warmth. This isn’t a love letter, or a desperate expression of longing. Harry probably hasn’t spent their weeks apart moping, like Louis keeps denying he has. He’s too busy, too preoccupied, to worry about a short fling, Louis supposes. It’s normal, he wasn’t expecting anything else. Yet, Harry took the time to write this card. He went to a shop and bought it, writing down a little update to keep his friend in the loop. Maybe he knew Louis would worry. Maybe he just missed him enough to want to keep in touch. Either way, Louis’ eyes are wet with the joy that this card is in his hands at all. He lays down on the sofa, postcard pressed against his chest, against his heart, both of his hands covering it fully, and he closes his eyes, refusing to cry.

He can’t believe they were only a few miles apart, that he could have borrowed his mum’s car and driven the two hours that separates their childhood homes, that he could have joined the party like Harry seems to have wanted. Louis could have kissed the place on his forehead that wrinkles with worry when he’s overthinking things, could have tangled their fingers together and kissed the paper-thin skin of Harry’s wrist. He could have hugged Harry’s mum, could have thanked her for creating such a masterpiece: the man he loves.  

Louis inhales sharply.

He thinks about Harry, pictures him in his mum’s garden, belly full of cake, his family celebrating this huge accomplishment of his and something settles in his soul. He imagines Harry telling them about his plans, about his new songs, maybe even playing a few of them. He imagines Harry eating food until he can’t anymore, snuggling with his mum in front of the telly while she plays with his hair and tells him she’s proud. He imagines Harry and his sister teasing each other and laughing. He imagines Harry going up to his room, taking out a pen, and writing this card for Louis, just to tell him that he’s okay, just because he was thinking about Louis.

His heart grows, expands, until there’s no room in his chest for it, for all the things he’s feelings, all the way he loves this man who left.

Harry is going to be okay though. Harry is going to be brilliant. And that, more than anything, soothes Louis’ soul.

&

April passes in a blur of getting the lighthouse ready, taking care of all the final little touches that make his establishment special. Louis feels a little twinge in his chest when he places all the wine cards back in the dining room, but he’s so busy with last minute perfectionism that he doesn’t dwell on it too long. Soon enough, the first few guests arrive, elderly couples on the island to watch birds and a few backpackers. They keep Louis busier than he’s been in months, which is exactly what he was hoping for. He barely has the time to miss Harry at all, though he can’t help but always worry about him a little. Whenever the feeling gets too overwhelming, Louis thinks of him golden with sunshine on a beach somewhere in LA, water sliding down his shoulders and the muscles of his back as he looks at the ocean, arms spread out to take it all in. Louis thinks of him baptised in the Pacific, back to his old life, but reborn. The same, but different.

He’s probably fine, Louis thinks constantly to himself. He probably doesn't think about Louis at all, too busy with popstar things demanding his attention. He’s probably fine.

Just like Louis is fine, going back to sleep in his lighthouse keeper cabin with barely a twinge of sadness and longing. Just like Louis is fine even though he rereads the postcard Harry sent him every night, fingers lovingly tracing the letters under the torchlight.

He was angry at first, what with Harry not giving him even the courtesy of a return address so Louis could pass along his greetings. But as time goes by, as April morphs into early May, the days long now, sun rising as early as five, Louis understands. Harry is protecting his privacy and it’s not like Louis could be furious about that. Not to mention, if the postcard is to be trusted, he’s no longer at his mum’s, has been in LA for quite a while now. It’d be a useless address anyway, there’s no point for Louis to pine.

Besides, what could Louis possibly write? When the one thing he wants to say is something he knows he probably shouldn’t.

Still, Louis rereads the letter and mentally writes his reply in the privacy of his bedroom, sliding the postcard under his pillow as he turns the torch off every night around midnight and starts dictating to himself…

 _Dearest Harry_ – No, too telling.  

 _Harry_ – No, too formal.

 _Popstar!_ – No, too flirty.

 _Dear Harry_ – lacks originality, but Louis is running out of options.  

 _The lighthouse is filling up more and more each day, but without you, it still feels empty._ – No! Too revealing.

 _The lighthouse is busy. So am I. I miss the days where we’d lounge in bed, bodies_ – No!

Yes, it’s probably best that Harry never sent him a return address.

It’s well into May and Louis is checking out a couple of ladies from France, waiting for their payments to go through as they giggle into each other’s necks, hands intertwined, when the postman barges in without knocking.

“Mr MacLean,” Louis calls, happy for the distraction.

He’s not against PDA, quite the opposite, but ever since Harry left, a painful spark of jealousy blossoms bitterly in his chest at the sight of happy couples. It’s hard to witness when the hand he wants to hold is on the other side of the world, busy with things greater than Louis could ever fathom. He doesn’t like what heartbreak has done to him, to be frank, but it’s not like Louis can help it.

“Hi Louis!” the postman replies happily, waiting on the side while Louis hands the ladies their receipt, thanking them for their business and wishing them a safe journey.

They’re adorable and in love and the monster of want in the bottom of Louis’ stomach has never been more ferocious. God, Louis hates it. He _hates_ it.

The two women leave, waving him off happily, thanking him in French as they walk out, big backpacks precarious on their shoulders. They’re off to the Orkneys next, Louis thinks, excited to see some magical stone circles.

“Anything good for me today?” Louis jokes, stepping around the reception desk and planting himself in front of the postman, one hand open in expectation. “Don’t say bills, that’s boring.”

“Oh, aye, you’ve got something interesting Tomlinson,” MacLean says, a twinkle in his eyes. “Say, you never mentioned you had friends in America?” he adds and Louis’ mouth opens in a small gasp, hand dropping.

“Wait, what?” he says, heart drumming with excitement to the beat of _Harry! Harry! Harry!_

God, he’s pathetic, Louis thinks distantly before his brain focuses on the fact that he’s probably got mail from Harry again. He can’t even be offended that Mr MacLean had a look through his mail, too used to the way people on the island gossip about everything. Including private correspondence.

“It’s from LA as well,” the postie continues, and if Louis ever had any doubt on the sender, it vanishes straight away. “Here,” MacLean adds, reaching into his little Royal Mail bag for a postcard and handing it to Louis.

He must see the way Louis’ face becomes serious, overwhelmed, because he doesn’t joke about it anymore, just kindly puts it in Louis’ hand with a small supportive smile. “Been waiting for that one, aye?” Mr Maclean says, tapping the card in Louis’ hand twice.

Louis nods, too shocked to speak. Truth is, he hasn’t. He really hasn’t. He’s been foolishly hoping, sure, in the dead of night where no one can see. He’s been hoping that Harry would write again, would tell him all about the wonderful things he’s been getting up to in LA. He’s been hoping Harry would care enough to share. Despite knowing how much it would hurt to receive more letters from Harry, Louis has also known all along that never hearing from him again would be way worse.

So he’s been hoping, yes. But he never expected anything. He wasn’t actually waiting for anything. Yet here it is, in his hands, another letter from Harry. New thoughts he’s had while he’s been away, new thoughts he wants to share with Louis. Louis who, if asked, would admit to wanting to know every single one of Harry’s thoughts. Even the silliest ones. Forever.

“Well, have a good day Louis,” Mr MacLean says politely, clearly sensing Louis’ need to be alone.

As soon as the postie is gone, Louis hides behind the reception desk. He’s too shaken to walk all the way back to his room, too shocked to move more than a few steps, but he can’t bear the thought of being seen, of existing in this realm while he reads this letter. He hides behind the reception desk, squeezing himself on the floor like an idiot between the wall and his stool, back straight and legs awkwardly bent. He puts the card on his knee, taking a few seconds to look at the lettering, the way _Someone says hi from California_ seems to shine on it, to call at Louis. He smiles a little a the water pictured on the card, fondness for Harry so strong he’s sure the man can probably feel it on the other side of the world. He can probably feel the warmth in Louis’ chest, it can probably stretch that far.

Finally, Louis turns the card around to read the message. 

 

_23/04/19_

_Louis,_

_You should see the sea here. It’s different, yet the same._

_It goes on and on and on. And so must I._

_I’m fighting to speak my own mind._

_One song at a time, right?_

_You’d be proud I hope._

_x H_

 

“Of course,” Louis replies in a whisper. He’s so furious at the thought that Harry might doubt how proud Louis is that he feels faint with it, the emotion zinging through him powerfully and giving him a head rush.

He reads it again. And again.

_It goes on and on and on. And so must I._

There’s a sadness to the letter that Louis is familiar with, the sadness that always runs through Harry, that he carries every day. 

_You’d be proud I hope._

And Louis is. Louis is so so proud he could burst with it. He’s proud in a way he never thought he could be. He thinks about Harry: kind, and talented, and beautiful, and smart, and so _so_ scared. Yet there he is, fighting for himself and his art anyway.

God, Louis loves him. 

God, it hurts. 

&

Louis continues to live his life and tries not to wait.

He goes on his daily run on the beach every morning, Clifford in tow. Some days, he’ll listen to a playlist Harry made for him. Others, he’ll put one of Harry’s albums on, ignoring the scary statistics on his Spotify artist page, the numbers so high Louis can’t even comprehend them. He indulges in the low and soothing sound of Harry’s voice and pretends that it’s enough. He’d be ashamed of himself, but who is to know? This is between him and a higher power he doesn’t believe in. He always regrets it though, always ends up missing Harry more fiercely those days, wishing he could hear him joke around with him, or talk to Clifford in an affectionate voice. 

But life goes on, even on the days he’s sad.

Louis cooks for his guests, spending half of his time in the kitchen with how busy the b&b is. He entertains them with stories and legends about previous residents of Fair Isle, recommends books about Scottish Folktales to the receptive ones and leaves the introverts alone as they spend time on top of the tower.

At night, Louis rereads his two postcards. He knows them by heart, could recite them with his eyes closed, but there’s something satisfying in staring at Harry’s loopy handwriting, in touching the paper he’s touched. A few days after receiving the second postcard, Louis dug through his pantries and found an old pink tin can. It’s a bit rusty, but the inside was clean enough, and now, when he’s done with reading, he puts them carefully in the can to keep them safe. He oftens falls asleep with the tin next to his pillow, halfway through mentally writing Harry a reply.

He tries his hardest not to feel embarrassed by his behaviour. He tries his hardest not to flinch when a guest borrows a jumper Harry was particularly fond of. He tries his hardest to have more good days than bad ones, bad ones where the ache where Harry lives in his heart is so overpowering he doesn’t want to get out of bed at all. He carries on, trying his best not to nourish the flicker of hope that blooms in his chest when he reads Harry’s words.

It’s foolish to cultivate such a thing for a man who never made him any promises.

A week passes. Then a second. And Louis starts thinking that maybe this is it, maybe Harry doesn’t have anything left to say to him anymore. Maybe he’s finally gotten too busy to care. 

Yet, just as he thinks so, the postman brings him news from LA. 

This time, Louis runs to his bedroom with the postcard clutched tightly in his hand, the b&b too crowded for him to have any privacy anywhere else. He’s a bit out of breath by the time he makes it, mostly from the excitement thrumming through his veins rather than the run, and he pants a little, back leaning against his closed bedroom door. When he finally takes the time to look at the card, the photo montage of all the best things about LA makes him smile, especially the image of water, right in the centre. He turns it around, the sight of Harry’s handwriting sending a thrill through his body. It’s an old friend by now, a comforting vision. It’s dated from a couple of weeks ago and it’s sad again, but with the same little kernels of optimism that Harry seems to cling on to.

 

_07/05/19_

_Dear Louis,_

_I’m taking things one day at a time. Things don’t seem so scary if it’s just one day I have to go through. I hope you’re well. That the b &b is full of people ready _

_to fall in love with Fair Isle like we did._

_Give Cliff a kiss from me!_

_x H_

 

Louis exhales once he’s done reading, fingers drumming against the postcard. Harry is feeling overwhelmed. He might not have said so explicitly, but Louis knows him well enough by now to read between the lines. Now, more than ever, Louis wishes Harry were here. With him.

It’s a selfish desire, one he’s had before, and, every time, he suppresses the thought forcefully. 

Harry is not someone he gets to keep. Louis isn’t a knight in shining armour, the lighthouse isn’t a safe haven where Harry could retire for the rest of his life and avoid the big bad scary world. And even if they were, that’s not what Harry wants. Nor is it what he needs.

He’s taking things one day at a time. He’s fine.

Louis nods to himself firmly, convincing himself it is so. Quickly, he puts the new postcard in the tin with the others before hiding it in his bed again and going back to work.

Later that day, when Clifford joins Louis in the kitchen while he’s cooking lunch, Louis drops everything he’s doing, kneeling down to give his dog a big hug. He presses tiny kisses on the top of his head and from the way he’s wagging his tail, Louis chooses to believe that Cliff knows, somehow, that they’re from Harry.


	12. Chapter 12

Three days later, Louis wakes up in the middle of the night, suddenly, unexpectedly, heart racing. He’s disoriented for a second, breaths quick as he tries to locate what woke him up so abruptly. There’s no dream leftover in his brain, no aftertaste of a nightmare that could be the culprit, and he swallows, frowning. He blinks softly in the dark, confused, half asleep, his eyes trying to adjust. He sits up absently, looking down to the floor of his bedroom, trying to find a Clifford shape down there. He would be the most obvious suspect after all, but he doesn’t seem to be in the room, at least not where Louis can see him. He frowns again, eyes automatically moving to the closed door. There are no whimpering or scratching noises coming from the other side, meaning Cliff is probably still sleeping happily in the living room, unperturbed by whatever it is that bothered Louis’ slumber. 

He blinks again, passing a hand through his hair and sighing. Whatever it was can’t have been that important, Louis thinks absently as he leans back into the mattress. He’s just closed his eyes, letting himself drift off to sleep again, when he suddenly realises the b&b’s phone is ringing. 

He sits up in bed again, abruptly, heart suddenly racing in his chest, feeling vaguely nauseous. 

“Oh god, oh god,” Louis mumbles as he starts to blindly feel for his phone under his pillows and covers. “What the fuck, where the fuck is it?” he says through gritted teeth just as his fingers wrap around the mobile.

He extracts it from under the covers, pushing the home button with clumsy fingers, relief spreading through his veins instantly when the phone awakens and he realises he doesn’t have any missed called on it.

Anyone who would call him with an emergency in the middle of the night would know to try his mobile first, so he can discount a family or friend crisis straight away. 

His relief is short-lived though because suddenly the phone stops ringing, the faint noise that miraculously carried through both buildings disappearing. Louis frowns, waiting for a few tense seconds until the phone starts ringing again and he jumps out of bed, running down the corridor between the tower and the cottage to get to the reception. 

Whatever it is, it can’t be good news and he’s mentally flipping through his elderly neighbours, trying to guess who is most likely to suffer from a medical emergency with his heart in his throat when he finally reaches the reception desk. He almost falls down when he stops suddenly, holding on to the counter before reaching behind it for the receiver, almost dropping it immediately as he tries to answer. 

“Yes!” Louis says, slightly out of breath, voice raspy with sleep. “Hello?” 

There’s some crackling down the line, the sound of breathing coming to Louis’ ears, but not much else. Maybe some music, something faint he can’t really put his fingers on. 

“Hello?” he tries again, working very hard not to let panic slip through his tone. “Is anybody there?” 

There’s a long pause, then, a voice. 

“Louis?”

Louis’ heart skips a beat painfully at the sound. 

“Harry,” Louis replies, trying to swallow around the ball lodged in his throat. 

He sounds awful. He’s only said one word but it was frantic, a tremor of panic badly concealed in his voice that Louis can’t ignore. 

“Hey,” Harry says with a sigh. 

He sounds exhausted. Louis frowns, trying to mentally calculate what time it is in LA right now, but he’s not even sure what time it is in Fair Isle and he doesn’t actually know the exact time difference between them anyhow. Besides, just because his last postcard was from Los Angeles, it doesn’t mean Harry is still there. He’s got money and time, for all Louis knows, he could be anywhere in the world. Louis has no idea.

“Hey,” he simply replies in a similar exhale. Tired. Sad. Worried. The too much-ness of it all making it hard to speak. It’s been weeks and months since Louis’ heard his voice. Weeks and months of longing. 

“Hey,” Harry repeats, voice trembling, and maybe he doesn’t know what to say either.   

Yesterday, Louis would have given anything to hear that voice again. Yesterday, he missed it like a limb and would have given anything for that low timbre in his ears one more time. Hell, he’s listened to Harry’s old albums during his runs, or curled up on top of the tower, so many times by now, secretly wishing he could hear his voice properly. Now, listening to the shaky way Harry keeps greeting him, Louis wants to take it back. Give him back his penny, cancel his shooting star. He doesn’t want to hear Harry in distress like this, not when he can’t tangle their fingers together in a show of support, his hand fitting in Harry’s perfectly. 

Except… it’s not quite true, is it? If Harry’s having a hard time, Louis would much rather know. He’ll spend hours on the phone if that’s what Harry needs and maybe that’s something Louis should worry about, a scary truth that will only end with him getting hurt, that has already hurt him, but he can’t panic about it now. Not when Harry clearly needs him. 

They breathe in unison on the phone, neither of them saying anything else for the longest of time. After a while, Harry’s breathing finally slows into a more normal pattern, less panicked than before. Louis sighs, shoulders dropping in relief and he settles down on the floor, in the tiny space between the reception desk and the wall, the old phone on his lap as he starts twisting its cord around his finger. 

“Harry…” Louis says, revelling in the way the word takes shape in his mouth. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud since Harry left and he hadn’t realised he’d missed it until now. “Harry,” he repeats. 

There are so many things Louis wants to say, so many unhelpful things, that he doesn’t know where to start. He wants to ask him if he’s okay, but doesn’t know if that will make things worse when the answer is obviously  _ no _ . 

Instead, he settles on jokingly, awkwardly, commenting on the most ridiculous thing. 

“It’s the middle of the night here, did you know? I was in bed and everything, took ages for me to realise the noise that woke me up was the phone.” Louis laughs, mostly chuckles to himself. “Bet some of the guests are gonna be pissed about the noise tomorrow morning.” 

It’s only when the whole thing is out of his mouth that Louis realises it sounds like a reproach. 

“I mean,” he adds, a bit panicked himself, “not that I care.” 

But Harry clearly forgot about silly things like time zones and he clearly cares, if the way he gasps and sounds completely devastated as he starts to apologise is to be trusted. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Oh my god, Lou… I’m so sorry, I’m gonna –”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me now Harry Styles,” Louis snaps and Harry shuts up immediately, the silence between them tense for a second. “Or,” Louis starts again, mellower this time, “or I’m… I’m going to….” He stops himself as he starts getting emotional, unable to threaten Harry, even as a joke. “Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, I can’t think right now. But you’re not going to like it. At all. So you better stay on the phone, Mister.” 

“Ok.” Harry says it in a small voice and Louis hates that he might have done that to him.  

“I just…” he says, trying to explain himself. Louis closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He can’t get too emotional. “You can’t call me in a panic in the middle of the night and just… hang up, okay,” he finally says, voice pleading. “I’m… You’re gonna freak me out if you do that, alright? I’ll worry. So, don’t hang up. Please. Stay with me. I don’t care if it's the middle of the night, Harry. I don’t care. We haven’t spoken in ages. So just… just talk to me. Please. How are you? How are things?” 

Harry snorts, bitter. “How do you think they are?” he says snippily, sarcastically. 

The silence hangs between them painfully. Even in the worst of his moods, talking to Harry never felt like this. Louis can feel every single one of those miles between them.

“Sorry,” Louis finally says in a mumble. “Stupid question.” 

“No,” Harry sighs. “God, no.  _ I’m  _ sorry. Fuck, Louis. I’m so sorry. I’m being such a dickhead. I can’t believe I called you in the middle of the night, I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“It’s alright.”

But Harry isn’t having any of it.

“It’s not,” he insists, sounding more and more frustrated. 

Louis pictures him pacing in some Californian mansion he owns, pictures him passing a hand through his hair the way he always does. Louis wonders if he’s still growing it, if it’s gone past his shoulders now. 

“It’s not alright. Don’t say that. I can’t call you in the middle of the fucking night and then treat you like shit that’s… That’s not okay, don’t pretend that it is, please.” 

It’s the please, sincere and small, that makes Louis agree. 

“Alright,” he says gently. “It’s shitty.” He pauses for a second, untangling his finger from the phone cord before starting to tangle it again. “I still want to know how’s it going though.”

Harry sighs. “Tonight?” he asks. “Not so good. In general?” He sighs again. “Relatively okay, I suppose.” 

“Yeah?” Louis says quietly, hoping to get more out of him. 

He’s been wanting more information for months now. He’s been starved of Harry’s thoughts and feelings for so long, it feels, has been fed nothing but tiny glimpses, tiny hints. He’s been  _ worried  _ too, despite the general optimistic tones of the postcards. And if Harry’s erratic breathing down the line is to be trusted, Louis was right to be concerned. He wants to know everything, wants Harry to share it all. Every good memory he’s made since they parted, every hurdle that’s been thrown in his path. He wants it all, he’s craving it. So he waits with anticipation for Harry to start talking again. 

“I just don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore,” Harry admits in a small voice and Louis wants to wrap him up, wants him to crawl inside Louis so he can keep him safe, so he can never sound this defeated ever again. “And I’m fighting so hard, too. For a place in this toxic industry and for my music… I just…” 

He inhales deeply, clearly trying to stop himself from crying. Then, he clicks his tongue, annoyed. When he speaks again, he’s fast, words spitting out of his mouth like bullets, anger so palpable Louis thinks if he reaches out in front of him, he’ll be able to touch it. From thousands of miles away. 

“I went out tonight with some of my industry friends,” Harry explains. “Yes,” he adds bitterly, “people you would know.” 

Louis gulps, fearing where this might be going. 

“First time seeing them, first time going out with them since I’ve been back in LA. It was supposed to be a small intimate thing at my friends’ house, but then more and more people got invited so we went to this fancy restaurant, right? I was getting nervous about the size of the party but I thought, it’s one of my favourite restaurants, I deserve a nice night out with friends. I’m in a good place. Right? I’m in a good place. So we’re having a nice night out, good food and everything. Celebrating my return, they said.” He pauses, exhaling shakily. “Celebrating my bloody return,” he repeats. “Isn’t it fucking great to have good friends like that, uh? I sure am lucky.” 

Louis closes his eyes, holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You know what they thought would be a good idea to celebrate my return, Louis? Champagne. And shots.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Louis whispers, opening his eyes and shaking his head. 

“One of them offered me cocaine,” Harry says with a bitter laugh. “We didn’t even get to dessert before one of them offered me fucking cocaine,” he laughs again, his voice echoing. 

“Where are you?” Louis asks. Concerned. Sad. 

“I didn’t have any!” Harry exclaims, sounding offended. 

Louis scoffs. “I know that babe, I’m just asking.” 

“I’m in the loo,” Harry admits. “Just… glamorously sitting on the floor of this ridiculously posh and American cubicle. I just wanna go home. They’re all getting drunk. I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes and I don’t think any of them noticed.”  

“Some welcome home party, uh,” Louis says. 

Harry laughs, not angrily this time, sounding a little more like himself. “Yeah.” 

His breath is steady down the phone, a sound Louis can’t help but find reassuring. 

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Harry says. “It’s silly but I just… I was so angry.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“You probably should though,” Harry argues and knowing he’s right doesn’t make it easier to hear. 

“Maybe,” Louis agrees. He pauses. “I’m sorry your friends are literally the most insensitive twats on the planet.” 

“I don’t think they meant anything by it, that’s the worst. They just wanted a night out. Big party. They didn’t blink when I refused and reminded them I’m sober. No one tried to pressure me or anything, it just… I don’t know that I can be around people like that anymore. I’m in a good place now… Good enough to say no. But what about six months from now? Or two years from now?” He swears softly under his breath. “I guess I have a lot to think about,” he sighs. 

“You’ll figure it out,” Louis says reassuringly. “Even if it takes a while. Remember, you haven’t been back very long.” 

He’s been away forever, it feels like. Somehow, Louis can’t remember a time before Harry was by his side and he’s ached every second he’s been gone. Not that he would ever admit it to Harry. Not that there would be a point to admitting it. Louis knows where they stand. He knows that a bit of whining and pining isn’t going to drag Harry away from his actual life and back on the island. He knows there’s no romantic comedy ending for them, their lives too separate, too different, to work.

God, Louis has missed him though. So much.

“Feels like a long time,” Harry replies, echoing Louis’ feelings so accurately it hurts, sharp and deep in Louis’ chest. “Feels like forever. A lifetime ago.” 

And Louis doesn’t know what to say to that so he just blinks and blinks but the tears still come, silently sliding down his cheeks. 

“I’m…” Harry starts saying before he stops himself. 

Louis exhales silently before speaking. “You what?” he asks, voice steady. The last thing he needs is for Harry to be able to tell, he thinks viciously as he wipes his right cheek with the back of his hand. 

“Nothing,” Harry whispers. “I could use a walk along the cliffs with Clifford tonight, that’s all.” 

It just makes Louis cry harder, tears silently streaming down his face as he swallows down a sob.

“Louis?” Harry asks, voice a bit crackly suddenly. “You still there?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says. 

“You okay?” 

“Yes,” Louis replies insistently, his voice no longer shaking. “Of course. Just tired,” he lies. “You should leave love,” he instructs firmly. “Don’t stay with those people. They’re not celebrating you. And you deserve to be celebrated, alright?” 

The line stays silent between them, stretching through miles and miles of seas and states. Louis closes his eyes, tries to transport himself back to that moment, walking home from the village, before he ever met Harry. He tries to remember feeling content, complete. He tries to remember a life before he knew he was missing something. His mind, treacherous, swipes the memory away, replaces it with the thought of Harry sleeping in his arms, their breaths in synch, the warmth of his body. 

“Can you stay on the line while I wait for a car?” Harry asks in a small voice and he probably knows he’s asking for too much, knows that Louis won’t refuse him even though he should. 

“Of course,” Louis agrees without even hesitating. 

“Can you tell me about the lighthouse?”

“Of course,” Louis repeats before starting to talk about the guests staying upstairs right now. 

When they hang up twenty minutes later, Louis starts crying again, sobs coming from the depth of his chest. 

He’s clutching the phone to his torso, hunched over himself when he hears the patter of paws against the floor. Then, a cold nose pressed against his face.

Louis lets go of the phone, reaching for Clifford instead, hugging him close to his chest, loving the reassuring weight of his dog against him. 

“We’re going to be okay,” he whispers in his dog’s ears. 

Knowing it’s going to be true eventually doesn’t exactly make it easy, but it helps. 

&

Harry doesn’t call again.

Weeks pass and Louis keeps expecting it, heart jumping whenever the phone rings, but it’s never him. Of course, it’s not. It’s neighbours who want to come around for dinner and wonder if the b&b is too full for it, or potential guests calling to reserve a room, sometimes future guests armed with a long list of questions Louis has to patiently answer. It’s never who he wants it to be, never Harry, and as May vanishes into June, Louis is forced to admit it’s not going to happen.

Maybe it’s better this way, maybe it means Harry is having an easier time, that he’s actually okay. 

Louis certainly hopes so.

He tries not to worry, but it’s hard. He knows Harry is a grown up, and a wise one at that. Whatever he’s doing right now is probably the right and safest thing. Still, Louis is haunted by the panic in his voice when he called, the anger, the grief.

But summer carries on with its earlier sunrises and later sunsets, and Louis forces himself to enjoy it all. He takes long walks on the beach in the evenings, sits in the sand with a book. He can rarely get through more than five pages before he’s greeted by one of the b&b’s guests or another Fair Isle resident. It’s hard to think of a sixty people island as crowded, but as they move into the proper tourist season, it feels like it is. Louis doesn’t mind though. He likes that rhythm. He likes the inevitable cycles; lonely winter and busy summer. He chats with everyone politely every time, endures some gentle teasing when people notice he’s reading fluffy historical romance novels and he laughs along, never admitting that he needs the escapism right now, needs stories that end with a happily ever after between the heroines and their dashing suitors. His suitor is long gone, was never a suitor at all, and he hasn’t sent a letter in weeks. Louis needs the happy endings to cheer him up a bit. Still, Louis sunbathes on the beach on the rare properly sunny days, even risks a little swim with Clifford once in a blue moon, trying not to think of a teeth-chattering Harry lunging himself into the freezing water a few months back.

On June twelfth, it’s the birthday of one of the kids staying at the b&b and the sun shines brightly, so Louis spends the morning making homemade ice cream. He goes a bit overboard with the flavours, excited to do something different and to surprise the kid’s family. He makes vanilla and chocolate, of course, but soon enough he’s gotten a bit more creative, using whatever he’s got around to create more exciting options. With the goal of pleasing his foreign tourists in mind, he makes at least one Scottish tablet tub, then goes a bit wild when he realises he has cream cheese and makes a strawberry cheesecake one. He tops it up with a raspberry tub and, as a grand finale, a green tea option. The whole thing turns into a bit of a roaring success, with even locals trickling in to buy a cone. Mrs Dunn spends twenty minutes trying to convince him that he should make it a weekly thing and it’s only when he agrees to consider it that she leaves the premises. 

The next morning, Louis is coming out of her husband’s grocery store with a tote full of raspberries, since he used his entire stock for the ice cream, when he bumps into Mr MacLean. 

“Louis!” the postman exclaims. “I was just about to go to the lighthouse,” he announces, reaching for his red Royal Mail bag. 

Even after weeks without news, Louis’ heart still squeezes with anticipation. “New bills for me, uh?” Louis jokes, trying to manage his expectations. 

But MacLean smirks like he knows exactly what Louis is doing, knows exactly what Louis has been desperately waiting for.

“Nah, I reckon you’ve got something a bit more exciting than that,” he says teasingly, still searching through the bag and Louis doesn’t know how it’s possible for him not to have found his mail yet, considering how little of a community he actually has to serve. “Sorry,” the postie adds like he’s read Louis’ mind, “but it’s building the suspense, aye?” 

Louis smiles politely through the desire to throttle him. The one thing he hates about Harry’s postcards is the fact that MacLean definitely has read all of them and he’s probably told everyone else. It doesn’t take a genius to guess who the mysterious ‘H’ who keeps writing to him is. Thankfully, no one in town has mentioned it to Louis, but he can tell they’re treating him carefully sometimes, like they know he’s sad. 

He hates it.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Mr MacLean takes his hand out of the bag, tightly clutched in it is a blue postcard. 

At first, Louis thinks it’s a picture of the ocean but when the postman finally hands it to him, he realises it’s the sky, with a circle of palm trees towering towards it, Los Angeles written in bright pink letters in the middle. 

“Thank you,” Louis whispers, barely glancing back at MacLean before walking away. 

“Nae bother!” MacLean calls back with a chuckle, but Louis is already long gone. 

He waits until he’s past the village and walking towards his home to flip the card, not even looking at where he’s going. 

When he finally reads the text, he stops in his tracks, breath knocked out of him with the punch it packs.    
  


_                              29/05/19 _

_ Darling, Dearest,  _

_ I’m fighting for your kind of quiet.  _

_ x H _

 

Louis looks at the date with wide eyes. Harry wrote it only a few days after their phone call, only a few days after he told Louis he didn’t know what he was fighting for anymore. Louis is shaking a little, unsure how he’s meant to interpret this. The rational part of his brain keeps reminding him he probably shouldn’t read too much into it, that he’s hurting himself by letting the words on the page flutter his heart. The other part of him, the desperately in love part, melts.

He sits down on the edge of the cliff, the beautiful lighthouse he loves so much a vision in the distance. 

He reads the words. Rereads them. 

_ I’m fighting for your kind of quiet.  _

Even if Harry doesn’t mean it the way Louis wants him to, he can’t help how touched he feels. He’s moved that the respite he and his home managed to give Harry mattered so much to him that he’s still chasing it from miles away, that he’s still chasing that feeling. Maybe the peace of Fair Isle will be a comparison point for the rest of his life, some kind of goal he’ll try to achieve in his career going forward. Maybe he’ll always come back to it as a true oasis of quiet, if only in his mind. 

If Louis could give him that, even if they never see each other again, he’ll feel satisfied. 

&

To Louis’ surprise, the next postcard arrives only a week later. It throws him off a little and he flusters when the postman hands it to him. He’s outside in front of the cottage, busy giving guests directions to the bird observatory when MacLean walks up to them, all smiles, postcard already in his hand. Louis suddenly forgets how to English, hands useless as he vaguely points in the general direction of the observatory. 

“Hum, I… you…” Louis says when MacLean hands him the postcard. 

“Have a good day,” he says cheekily to the guests before walking back the way he came. 

Louis stares at him until he’s barely a dot in the distance and, only then, does he realises that he’s been standing silent like an idiot one hand still pointing. He lets his arm fall, eyes drifting to the postcard and he frowns a little when he spots the dark blue of the ocean on it, contrasted by the pale blue of the  _ Greetings from Jamaica.  _

Why on Earth is Harry in Jamaica? he wonders for a second before being dragged out of his thoughts by a small laugh. 

“So…” Sophie says, grabbing her partner’s hand. “Straight ahead until we meet the main road and then we take the next left, right?” 

Louis is bright red, he knows he is, heart pounding, palms sweating. 

“Yeah,” he says, still sounding distracted. “Yes,” he adds, more confident this time. He shakes his head and puts his empty hand in the back pocket of his jorts, giving the couple a winning smile. “You can’t miss it, honestly. There’s not that many buildings on the island, right?” he jokes, pressing the hand that’s still holding the postcard on his stomach, pressing the card against his red tee, hiding it from view. 

Right on cue, Sophie and her boyfriend, whose name Louis couldn’t recall even if you paid him, laugh. People on holiday are so easy to please, he thinks distantly when they thank him and start walking in the direction he pointed out. They’re already in a good mood, ready for an adventure and to be entertained. Even his worst jokes always get a laugh from the tourists. Still, he’s not desperate for an audience right now, is quite excited that they’re fucking off actually. 

Once they’re gone, Louis opens the cottage front door and whistles. He waits a few seconds before Clifford appears, wagging his tail excitedly at being called out. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” Louis asks and he smiles when Cliff tries to climb him in response. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Louis tells him, scratching behind his ears the way he likes even though he’s not supposed to climb people. 

Louis doesn’t even bother with the leash, too eager to get away and find some privacy to read his letter. They walk down to the beach together, relieved to find it not too busy. Still, Louis finds a rock in a corner and sits down out of sight, taking his vans off and letting his feet dangle in the water. Clifford is happily running around the beach, saying hello to the people he knows and Louis lets him have fun while he focuses on his mail. 

 

_                           03/06/19  _

_ Dear Louis,  _

_ I found another island to hide while I record.  _

_ I wish it felt the same but… It’s sunny all the time here.  _

_ And hot. Everyone loves it.  _

_ I’d give anything for one of those storms we used to watch though.  _

_ Still, things are progressing faster than I could have imagined.  _

_ It’s a good thing, I suppose.  _

_ I’m thinking about you.  _

_ x H  _

 

Louis finds himself smiling when he reads the date. Harry wrote it weeks ago. Right after the latest postcard. He’s been thinking about Louis all this time, kept thinking about him and writing to him, even when he got busy with work. 

And Harry  _ is _ working, is recording an album according to the letter. Louis knew it would happen, of course. That’s why Harry left after all, why he went back to his regular life without looking back, or at least not too much. Louis still feels a blossom of pride at the confirmation. The songs Harry wrote on Fair Isle are going to live and breathe properly. Those gorgeous songs Louis fell in love with, that Harry wrote with so much love and care, are going to go into the world and play on people’s phone and in their cars. They’re going to play on the radio. They’ll follow people during hard times and happy times. 

What a thrilling thought. Louis isn’t sure how Harry doesn’t get a headrush every time he remembers his words and his voice comfort in moments of hardships, that they accompany moments big and small in thousands of people’s lives. 

Yet, despite the pride, there is always worry. Inescapable.

Blinded by his feelings for Harry, Louis can’t help but read the melancholia, the sadness, beneath the words and want to make it better. Except there’s nothing he can do, so he sits there, on his rock, feet in the water, and swallows down the concern. 

Harry is thinking about him. It’s a lifeline and Louis has to cling onto it. 

&

The next time the postman brings Louis some news, it’s more than a week later, at the very end of June. 

The month flew by faster than Louis could have imagined and he feels like almost all he did in the last two weeks was spend hours locked in the kitchen to cater to a full cottage. It’s a blessing not to have any vacancies and Louis knows it, but he’s only halfway through the season and he can feel himself getting tired. He knows part of it is because a lot of his energy is still spent nursing a broken heart. He never lets it show though, bright friendly smile on his face at all times. But that requires a lot of energy too, to be ‘on’ every second of every day, except in the privacy of his own room. Under normal circumstances, Louis finds customer service easy. He knows how to charm people and entertain them. He knows how to make them laugh and leave him five-star reviews on TripAdvisor. He doesn’t find it too tiring because he only has to do it actively in the busy half of the year. These days though, faking joy and interest in everyone else’s life story takes a bit more out of him than normal. 

It’s okay, though. It’s fine. It’ll pass. 

He’s still rereading Harry’s cards every night. He knows he should stop, knows he’ll never get over him if he keeps indulging in the rush of Harry’s words, but he can’t. It’s almost an addiction of his own, and Louis would feel ashamed for the inappropriate comparison, but it’s apt. Bloody hell, it really is. He just can’t stop. He wants the feeling of his heart fluttering when he reads that Harry is thinking about him. He wants to fall asleep every night thinking about the warmth of Harry’s body next to his. He wants to fall asleep imagining his soft snores filling Louis’ bedroom. He wants to fail to fall asleep with images of Harry’s naked body in his mind, his mouth opened in pleasure. So he indulges and indulges again, rereading the words under the torch light. 

Every morning, he wakes up with the foolish hope a letter is coming. Every morning, he longs for some news of how Harry’s album is going. Every morning, he craves news on how Harry is getting on living on an island with the reputation of being a big boozy holiday destination. 

Louis isn’t actually worried about that. If Harry relapses then that’s life and part of his journey. There’s not much Louis could do to prevent it, especially not from miles away. Or that’s what he tries to tell himself so he doesn’t actually feel like a horrible control freak who thinks he can make better decisions about Harry’s life than Harry can.

Honestly, what a ridiculous thought, Louis reminds himself in his moments of weakness. 

The morning of June twenty-eight starts like all the others, with a long jog along the cliffs and down to the beach. Then, Louis makes breakfast for everyone, chatting pointlessly with guests as they share the food, having been invited in the dining room for once. Once the dining room is cleaned up and the dishes are done, he busies himself with some administrative tasks, staying at the reception desk so he’s visible should any of the guests need him desperately. The morning goes by slowly, a little too warm, a little too boring. Soon enough, it’s too late for MacLean to turn up and Louis resigns himself to another day without news. 

To his surprise though, the postman shows up sometimes after lunch, carrying not one, but two postcards from Jamaica and an uncomfortable look on his face. Louis thanks him and grabs his mail, nervous to read what Harry has to say now that he’s seen the look on Mr MacLean’s face.

The first one he grabs is an aerial view, some beach houses arranged in a heart surrounded by the darkest and deepest of oceans. Louis tries not to read into the imagery as he flips the card over and reads.

 

_                     11/06/19  _

_ Dear Louis,  _

_ I’m sorry about my latest. Sometimes  _

_ I don’t know what I’m talking about.  _

_x H_

 

“What?” Louis says as he reads the letter, thinking back to the last postcard he received, the one that announced Harry was recording his album. 

There is no reason for Harry to regret sending that one and it’s with his heart in his throat that Louis moves on to the second postcard, this one another beachy picture, the JAMAICA written in the flag’s colours in the middle taking almost the entire space. It takes a second for Louis to even notice the  _ Greetings, with love  _ written above and below it. Still nervous and with a slight tremor in his hands, Louis turns the postcard around. 

It’s dated the day before the other card and Louis has to put a hand on the reception desk to steady himself as he reads it. 

_                             10/06/19 _

_ I DON’T KNOW IF I KNOW HOW TO NOT MISS YOU.  _

_ I RECORD SONGS AND THERE’S ONLY YOU COMING OUT OF THE _

_ SPEAKERS. I’M PRETTY SURE I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS. _

 

The words are dripping with anger, resentment – Louis doesn’t need to hear Harry’s tone to know it – and for the first time, he thinks maybe Harry is suffering for the same reason that he is. 

Maybe Harry has feelings too. He’s writing songs about him, after all. He’s writing songs and he’s frustrated about it. Harry, who still likes the idea of writing a song for someone as a romantic gesture even if he doesn’t want them written about himself. He’s thinking about Louis still, months later. Maybe Harry’s haunted too ? Maybe he obsesses over thoughts of Louis the way Louis does…  

Does he curl up alone at night, in a big beach house in Jamaica, wishing Louis’ arms were wrapped around him despite the heat? Does he feel lonely even when he’s surrounded by people just because Louis isn’t there? Does he long for Louis’ voice reading him stories? Does he crave his touch? Is he kissing people in dark clubs wishing he was tasting Louis’ lips? Does he touch himself in the morning thinking about their bodies intertwined the way Louis does? When he sings those songs he’s talking about, in that recording booth so far away, does he remember playing his guitar softly for an audience of one? Just for Louis and no one else. 

It all spins quickly in Louis’ head, possibilities and questions. It’s too big, too upsetting, too exciting, and Louis chases it all away with a headshake.

He can’t. 

He takes a deep settling breath, going back to the second letter. The apology. Harry must have sent them both back to back, must have regretted his admission so badly that he wanted to erase it as soon as it was posted. 

Should Louis ignore it? Should he ignore the way it makes him feel? Warm and special and big and important? Sad and incomplete? Harry clearly wants him to, with the way he’s apologised for his feelings. 

Louis puts the second card away, flat on the counter, image side up so he doesn’t have to read Harry trying to take his spill of feelings back. 

Instead, he focuses on the first postcard. 

_ I DON’T KNOW HOW TO NOT MISS YOU.  _

He reads the line. Then rereads it. He reads it three times, four times, five times. 

_ I DON’T KNOW HOW TO NOT MISS YOU _ . 

“Then come back,” Louis whispers to the postcard uselessly, suddenly feeling angry himself. “If you miss me and you think about it just come back,” he begs, tears coming to his eyes and he swallows them back down quickly, scoffing at himself. 

Like it’s that easy. Like it’s that simple. 

Not for the first time, he’s relieved Harry never bothers with a return address. Louis would hate to be the man begging a fling from months ago for a drop of attention. 

&

The next postcard doesn’t come until the sixth of July.

It’s very informal, as far as Harry’s correspondence goes. It makes no mention of his previous two letters and Louis, who has been obsessing over them for days, feels a little cheated. 

For nine days now, he’s felt like Harry dropped a bomb on their relationship, opening himself in ways he had never done before and Louis has been waiting, heart in a perpetual rollercoaster, to see what he’d have to say next. 

Turns out what he has to say next is a big fat load of nothing. 

 

_                                 21/06/19 _

_ I think I wrote the best song I’ve ever written yesterday.  _

_ It’s not even as scary as it should be.  _

_ Feels like… like it might be worth it.  _

 

It’s not that Louis isn’t happy for him. He’s always happy for him. But he’s been cultivating the hope that Harry might want more, might love him back, for nine days now, and the second he reads that postcard it feels like a bucket of ice cold water has been thrown at his face. 

So what if Harry has feelings? Fuck, Louis has been so naive. He’s clearly not going to do anything about them, and why should he? Their lives couldn’t be more different, more at odds. 

Even feelings can’t fix that. 

But Louis still puts the new postcard carefully in his pink tin, tucking it inside next to the others so he can reread it whenever he needs.

&

On July eleventh, Louis receives : 

 

_                      27/06/19  _

_ Hey Louis,  _

_ Remember my birthday?  _

_ I didn’t think it was possible to feel free like this.  _

_ You, me, Cliff & the sea… When I’m not recording here,  _

_ I’m always on the beach, chasing that feeling,  _

_ feet warm in the water.  _

_ It’s not the same, but it’ll do.  _

_ x H _

 

Louis would be angry at Harry for playing hot and cold, for being toyed with, but he understands. Understands how hard it is to be apart, even if they both know they don’t have a choice. How hard it is to accept that their lives will never tangle naturally, will never mesh in a way that would make being a couple easy. He understands how difficult it is to let go, understands being so reluctant. 

In the same way Louis can’t stop treasuring the postcards, Harry can’t stop sending them. They’re both holding on in different ways, even if they know they’ll have to let go soon. 

So no, Louis can’t feel angry. He’s not ready to let go either, not yet. 

Harry will get bored, or too busy, or both, eventually. And it’s okay. Louis will deal when the time comes. But for now, he can’t let go. And he certainly would never blame Harry for feeling the same. 

Still, reading the letter, thinking about Harry’s birthday, thinking about kissing him on the beach… Louis just wants to do it again. One last time. He wants Harry to see Fair Isle in the spring, with puffins everywhere. And in the summer, the beach almost crowded. He wants him to come back, wants him to have the feeling he’s chasing, wants him to never go without. 


	13. Chapter 13

A few days later, Louis is coming back from an afternoon walk with Clifford when he hears his name called from inside the living room. He’s a bit shocked when he finds Mrs Chadwick inside, curled up by the window, basking in the sun with a sketchbook open on her lap as she draws the cliffs. He thought for sure all the guests were outside. 

“I’m surprised you’re not outside with the others,” Louis teases as he walks in instead of saying hi. “We don’t always get them sunny like this, the beach is beautiful today. You’d get some great viewpoints of the cliffs and the lighthouse from down there.”

The elderly woman smiles at him kindly. “I wanted a bit of peace and quiet,” she explains. “Being on holiday with the grandkids is lovely, but I don’t have the energy I used to, you know.” 

Louis nods. “Of course, I understand. The beach is really busy,” he says as he walks closer, taking a look at her drawing. It’s remarkably precise. “That’s beautiful,” he comments, pointing at it. 

She doesn’t blush. Instead, she beams at him with pride and a hint of smugness. “Isn’t it?” she says cheekily.

“You’re very talented.” 

“Thank you, dear. I can’t quite believe you get to be here every day.” 

At that, Louis smiles. “I can’t quite believe it either. I’m really lucky.” He says the last part quietly, mostly to himself, before he smiles at her a little more politely this time, rubbing his hands together. “Now, what can I do for you? Would you like a nice cold drink? I know it gets warm by the windows.”

“What you can do for me?” Mrs Chadwick asks, eyes confused under her thick-rimmed black glasses.

“You called me in here?” Louis says, a bit hesitant, hoping she hasn’t forgotten. 

“Oh! Of course, silly me. No, no, you’ve got it wrong my dear boy, it’s what I can do for you.” 

“Pardon?” Louis says, quite properly confused.

“That nice little postman was here,” she says and Louis can’t help but snort at the idea of describing MacLean, who towers over most with his 6 '3 stature, as little. “He’s left a postcard for you,” she adds and Louis’ inhales sharply. 

It’s only been a few days since he last had news. It’s not a bad thing, not having to wait. Of course, it’s not, but Louis is not used to receiving Harry’s letters so close together. 

While he’s come to loathe the wait in between each postcard, it’s part of his routine now. Days and weeks go by and he pretends he’s fine while silently moping and pining at night. It’s the new normal. Between each of Harry’s new letters, Louis tries to keep himself busy, tries to cheer himself up that way, but underneath he’s restless, fearing he might have received the last one without even knowing it, fearing Harry won’t warn him before stopping to write and he’ll be left unsatisfied with no closure. It’s not great, but it’s what Louis has become used to. 

This lack of delay between correspondence is giving him a bit of whiplash. 

Does it mean anything?

“Oh, did he?” Louis finally replies after a long pause. “Well, thank you for getting my mail for me, that’s very kind.” He offers her his hand expectantly, stomach tightening with nerve.

Mrs Chadwick flips a few pages from her sketchbook until she finds the two she nestled the postcard between. “There you are,” she says kindly.

“Thank you,” Louis mumbles, staring at the new card he barely had to wait for, at the busy street depicted on it, Tokyo! written on the bottom. 

_ What’s Harry doing in Japan now? _  Louis can’t help but wonder fondly. At least that explains why the letter came so quickly, he figures as he starts walking away. 

He’s turned away from the window, flipping the card over and about to read it as he leaves the room when Mrs Chadwick clears her throat. 

“Yes?” Louis asks, voice controlled and polite. He turns back around, a fake smile on his face. “Do you need anything else?”

“Oh no,” Mrs Chadwick says kindly. “I just thought maybe you’d want to chat.” The way she says it, so pointedly… Louis knows straight away that she’s joined the long list of people who have read or heard about his mail.  

“I’m alright, thank you,” Louis replies, smile dropping. He looks down at the card, finally reading the message and his entire body snaps to attention, back straightening and eyes widening. 

It seems both careless, yet tender, for Harry to write something like that to him and send it. 

 

_ _

_                      05/07/19  _

_ “They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same, but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now” _

_ Edna St. Vincent Millay  _

 

Louis blinks, eyes wet. He lets out a shuddering exhale, trying not to cry. 

“Louis, my dear boy,” Mrs Chadwick is saying from far away, “are you alright?” 

He needs to leave this room. Right now. He needs to be out of sight, needs to be alone. He can feel his hands trembling a little and he swallows thickly around the ball of  _ want,  _ the ball of  _ longing _ , the ball of  _ absence _ , uncomfortably stuck in his throat. 

If Harry knew how much Louis is thinking about him, worrying for him, loving him from afar… He never would have sent such a thing. 

After a few long seconds of silence where Louis stares at the quote without replying, he finally looks up and meets Mrs Chadwick’s eyes again. 

“I’m quite alright,” he says absently. “I just have a lot to do today.” 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she says softly, closing her sketchbook and putting her pencils aside. 

Then, she gets up, walking towards him with determination.  She loops her arm through his, interlocking them together as she guides him outside of the living room and down the corridor. 

“You need tea,” she announces firmly as they turn into the kitchen. “Tea and a good chat with a stranger.” 

“I’m okay,” Louis lies, still following after her. 

She sternly points at one of the chairs around the tiny table in the kitchen – Harry’s chair – before turning her back to him and putting the kettle on. 

“It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me things, but you’d be surprised how much venting can help.” 

Louis snorts, sitting down in the chair and putting the postcard down on the table, text facing up.

“I know,” he replies. “I vent to my dog a lot. It’s just the two of us here, you know.” 

“Ah, but your dog can’t say anything back now, can he?” she asks, turning around briefly to smirk at him. 

“Some would argue that’s his greatest quality,” Louis jokes flatly and the corners of his mouth turn up a little when Mrs Chadwick laughs with sincerity. 

“Go on,” she encourages him a while later – after she’s put a steaming cuppa in front of him. “You’ll feel better, and I’m an old nosy hag; I want to know it all.” 

Louis chuckles, drinking the hot beverage despite the fact that it’s boiling outside. 

“You love whoever wrote that letter a lot,” Mrs Chadwick says and Louis finds himself trying to blink tears away again, this time much less successfully than before. 

Not trusting his voice not to shake, Louis simply nods. 

“But she can’t stay here with you,” Mrs Chadwick continues to guess. 

“No,” Louis agrees. Then, because if he’s talking about this he certainly won’t lie, he adds: “he can’t. His life is far away from here.” 

There’s a second of surprise and discomfort flashing on Mrs Chadwick’s face, gone before Louis can truly put his finger on it. Soon enough, she’s back to looking like the world’s most concerned Nan. 

“That must be difficult.” 

“Yeah...,” Louis sniffs, wiping a tear away with the palm of his hand. “He’s travelling a lot for work and he keeps writing without leaving a return address. Most days it feels like I’m just waiting for news, you know?” 

Mrs Chadwick hums before drinking from her mug. “Sounds a bit unfair,” she comments. “If you both know it’s not going to work he shouldn’t string you along like this.” 

“It’s not like that,” Louis says defensively, though of course to anyone else it’s exactly like that. It’s exactly like Harry is playing with Louis’ feelings. 

“Sounds a bit selfish if you ask me,” she adds, ignoring Louis’ protest. 

“He’s the most selfless man I’ve ever met,” Louis whispers. “Everything he does… it’s for other people. I can’t be mad at him for writing to me if he needs to when he almost never does things for himself. I can’t… Even if I miss him and it hurts, and even if I read that quote and I feel so… so angry because if he were here and he could feel what I feel, he would  _ never  _ dare to imply I don’t miss him too.” Louis breathes deeply, looking down, down at the postcard. “But then… how can I be angry? When I read this and I just… I think… maybe, if things were different, he’d be here with me. How can I be angry? When that’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever read.”

“Oh darling,” Mrs Chadwick says, gently reaching for his hand across the table squeezing it in hers.

“I don’t want him to be sad,” Louis continues, feeling so overwhelmingly mournful over it. “I love him, I don’t want to think about him being miserable in… in Tokyo or in Jamaica! I want him to be happy. But if he is sad and if he does miss me, then I’d much rather know about it. Even if it hurts.”

Mrs Chadwick hums, tapping the top of his hand softly with her fingers. “You’re all over the place, aren’t you?” she teases. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. Then, he smiles. “It’s gonna be okay, eventually.”

“Of course, hearts aren’t as delicate as we fear. They can endure quite a lot,” she says wisely. “Besides, we’ve all had those passing ships relationships, haven’t we? People who matter greatly to us but are sailing in the opposite direction, right?” 

Louis exhales loudly, a small noise of surprise leaving his mouth, not quite a gasp. “Yeah,” he agrees after a few seconds. “That’s exactly it.” 

“We can only mourn them after they’ve gone, but still treasure them for what they gave us,” she adds, an absent look on her face. 

“Who was yours?” Louis can’t stop himself from asking.

She looks back to him and smiles. “Just a childhood friend. We had to go our separate ways. But she was always special to me. Those were very different times, you know.” 

Louis gulps, nodding at her sadly. “Right.” 

“You’ll be alright,” Mrs Chadwick finally says, confident and supportive. 

When she and her husband leave with the grandkids at the end of the week, she gives Louis one of her sketches of the lighthouse. In the corner, she quickly writes ‘ _ Louis, look how beautiful your world is!’  _ before handing it to him with a knowing smile.

&

The next Japan postcard comes only a week after the first, surprising Louis a little less. Harry isn’t offering more information as to why he’s in Asia, but this time, he gives him a snippet of what life is like for him there. Louis reads the card with a soft smile on his face as he puts away his jacket, having just come back from his morning jog. When he reaches the end, Louis blushes, feeling it spread from his face, down to his torso, his heart skipping a few beats. The shift in tone alone is enough to leave Louis a bit confused but flattered nonetheless.    
  


 

 

_                           11/07/19  _

_ Dear Louis, _

_ Have you ever been to Japan?  _

_ I love it there. Walking around Tokyo, I feel like I’m truly getting lost.  _

_ It’s exhilarating. I’ve been trying to pick up the language.  _

_ It’s fun but challenging. Keeps me occupied while stuff is being… negotiated.  _

_ All my admiration to the way  _

_ your eyelashes kiss your cheeks.  _

_ x H  _

 

It’s such a small thing, a weird compliment if anything, but Louis lets it spread over him like a caress. Reading it feels exactly the same as the warmth of Harry’s determined gaze on his face. It feels exactly like when he spent long evenings studying every corner of Louis’ features in silence. It feels exactly like when Harry carefully pressed kisses on every single inch of Louis’ skin, reverent in what could only be described as love making even though they never used such language.  

Those words, this letter, feel exactly the same, so Louis blushes and shivers a little, pressing it against his pounding heart as he tries to calm himself, as he tries not to feel wooed. 

He keeps it in his pocket all day, unable to separate himself from it for even a second, sneakily rereading the last sentence whenever he has a moment alone. That night, when he puts it into the tin with the others, there isn't a twinge of sadness like most times he receives a postcard from Harry. Instead, Louis feels flattered, seen, remembered. 

Of course, after this, he doesn’t hear from Harry for weeks.  

&  

Life carries on, the summer days still long and the lighthouse still busy. And Louis still waits, trying not to start feeling worried when August first comes and goes without news. The Japan postcards arrived more or less a week after being written, so it’s safe to assume Harry’s moved on, gone somewhere else, and that’s why Louis hasn’t received a thing yet. To stop his fussing and worrying, Louis imagines all the far away places he could be travelling to and that take ages for mail to reach Fair Isle. One night in the middle of the second week of August, Louis spends an entire evening on top of the lighthouse imagining Harry sunbathing in Hawaii. 

Whenever he gets a bit worked up, either annoyed at being left in the dark or weepy because he misses Harry desperately, Louis still rereads his postcards. He spends a lot of time looking for clues in them, trying to pinpoint the exact emotion hiding being a certain word choice, trying to imagine the exact way Harry missed him when he wrote certain phrases. He could probably write academic papers on his interpretation of Harry’s correspondence at this point, knows them so well he could recite them in his sleep. It’s probably pathetic, he thinks vaguely sometimes, but he can’t help himself. 

He’s waiting, life almost on pause in between the postcards, days blurring into one another until he can’t differentiate between one or the next, guests all looking and sounding the same.  

He surprises himself, at nine am on August tenth, by thinking how weird it is that he hasn’t thought to google Harry to see what he’s up to. After all, it would be the easiest way to find out where he’s gone, assuming he’s been spotted by fans. 

The thought is nauseating even in theory and Louis spends the rest of the day disappointed in himself for even having it. He told Harry, all those months ago, that the only things worth knowing about him were things Harry had told him himself and Louis meant it. Even as a random passing thought, even as a mental remark that he hasn’t thought of doing it, the mere suggestion is vile and violates Harry’s trust. And if there’s one thing Louis cherishes above anything else, it’s that. 

He’s fidgety and uncomfortable the whole day, silently chastising himself for being so needy, so worried, that googling Harry would be tempting, even for a second. Guests even start commenting on it, asking him with concerned tones if he’s sure he’s alright as he serves dinner that evening. 

Louis lies, of course. Pastes on a big customer service smile and lies through his teeth, claiming he’s simply tired rather than admitting he’s mad at himself, at his weakness. The truth gnaws at him though, well into the night. 

Like it knew it was needed, Harry’s next postcard arrives bright and early the next morning, finally calming the overwhelming need for news that Louis has been fighting off. It’s dated from the end of july and comes from LA, which, of course, explains the delay in the first place. Louis would be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved, though the text scribbled on it does make him pause. He reads and rereads the card while putting some sheets away for the laundry in the basement, puzzling through Harry’s relatively evasive message.  

 

_                              25/07/19 _

_ Dear Louis,  _

_ Recently, I had such a stark moment of clarity it was like the whole world lit up with certainty. I’ve known what I want for a while now, but there’s comfort in the bone-deep satisfaction I felt a few nights ago. The beach was empty, the sky beautiful, I knew who I am, and I could almost feel your hand in mine…   _

_ Selfishly wishing you were here,  _

_             H _

 

“A stark moment of clarity?” Louis says to himself as he presses start on the washing machine. “What the hell does that mean?”  

But the card, of course, has no answer. 

Harry still misses him though, is still suffering from the other side of the world, and Louis can’t help the mixture of  _ reliefgriefempathysadness  _ that fills him up at the knowledge. He hasn’t moved on yet. They’re both still in the same boat. 

 &

It takes only a little over a week for the next postcard to come, offering Louis nothing but more whiplash. It’s mid, borderline late August by now and most of his guests have started trickling down south again, a few of them heading to Edinburgh for the festival, while others head home already. He’s a little less busy than last year, which should be concerning financially, but truth be told, Louis is a little relieved. He’s got no bookings past the first week of September and normally he’d be upset, but this year, he’s really looking forward to the peace and quiet. Wallowing and nursing a broken heart when he has to smile at strangers all the time aggravates the pain tenfold and he just wants to spend an entire day without fake smiling. Just one day. But, there are still a few bookings here and there, so when Louis receives a postcard from London around the nineteenth of August, he has to leave the reception desk flustered, abandoning a solo traveller and the insanely boring chat he was subjecting Louis to. 

Something about vintage cars? Louis couldn’t say. 

He’d feel bad for essentially deserting a customer, but there are little tingles of electricity coursing through his veins at the thought of Harry being back on this side of the pond and he needs to read his mail immediately. Right now. Straight away. By himself. Besides, his lie about forgetting to do something urgent was convincing enough, what with the way his voice reached a previously unachieved high pitch the second the postman left the building.  

Louis quickly makes his way through the cottage and the annexe, climbing up the stairs to the tower way too fast to be fully safe. Once he reaches the top, he’s relieved to find it empty. He doesn’t stop in the lantern room though, going straight for the door that leads outside instead, heart thundering and breaths quickening. 

It’s not a sunny day, not really, but the sea is calm on the horizon and Louis takes it all in as he inhales deeply to calm himself down.  

Harry’s nearby. Harry’s close. Harry’s back. 

Louis definitely needs a little fresh air to process this news. 

Once he’s got his breathing pattern back to something resembling normal and he’s stopped his brain from imagining a thousand silly scenarios where Harry’s come back  _ just for him _ , Louis turns the card over and finally reads the message.    
  


_                              16/08/19 _

_ Dear Louis,  _

_ Here I am, back in the UK, after what feels like forever. I can’t believe it’s only been a few short months. Going back to LA –  the site of so many triggering memories – felt nothing like a homecoming. But I’m so glad I was strong enough to do it. Being in London doesn’t quite feel like a homecoming either. I guess I’m still looking for that feeling of belonging you described so perfectly. I’m getting closer though, I know that now. What a joy. What a relief.  _

_ Always thinking of you in your tower,  _

_ H  _   
  


Louis puzzles the text for a while, frowning a little. There’s a new sense of optimism in Harry’s writing that wasn’t there before. Something that’s been slipping through his last couple of postcards that’s different. It’s not just him trying to be cheerful so Louis won’t worry. Louis has learned to recognise that by now, has learned to spot the badly concealed melancholy underneath it all. But this… this is sincere optimism that’s dripping from every single word, a belief that things are going to be okay. Louis thinks back to that clarity he mentioned previously and wonders… He wonders what it is that Harry has figured out that changed everything. 

It’s probably music related, Louis figures, as he lets himself be comforted by the rising wind. 

Selfishly, for a second, he hopes it’s about him. Then, quick as it came, he chases the thought away. Selfishly, for a second, he hopes Harry doesn’t find whatever it is he’s actually looking for if it means he’ll stop writing to Louis as a cathartic outlet. That thought – and the accompanying guilt – doesn’t let itself be chased away as easily.   

&

The next postcard comes two days later, from LA, dated from the beginning of the month, right before Harry left the US for London. 

 

_                  10/08/19  _

_ Dear Louis,  _

_ It feels good to know that tomorrow I’m leaving LA with all my business sorted, that I won’t have to be back for a while now. It’s a weight off my shoulders! I’ve worked hard for so long and soon, it’s going to start paying off. Soon, I’ll see the results. I’m sorry if I seem evasive… There’s so much I’m not allowed to say yet. But I can’t wait to tell you everything. I can’t wait.  _

_ Yours,  _

_    H _

 

It doesn’t give him a lot more information, but it does make him feel better that Harry didn’t go almost a full month without writing to him. Without thinking about him. Maybe it means all of his fears about being forgotten aren’t founded, maybe it means that Harry finding himself doesn’t necessarily mean the end for them. They’re only an echo of what they were, of course, but Louis can’t bear the thought of losing that. 

And there’s that bit at the end… that bit where Harry says he can’t wait to tell him everything. 

Fair Isle is quite far for a coffee date to catch up, but Louis is foolish enough to hope it means Harry will call again with news at some point. That at some point – probably soon – he’ll pick up that phone and tell Louis everything. He’ll tell Louis all about finishing the writing of the album, tell him all about his recording adventures around the world. His voice will go a little high pitched like it does when Harry gets passionate about something, his words won’t be as calculated as usual. There’ll be fewer pauses where he’s looking for what to say because he’ll be so excited to tell Louis all about it. He’s foolish enough to hope that Harry isn’t going to forget Louis on his quest to reconquer the world with his music, even though he’s officially left him behind.

He’s back in London now, most of the work on his album must be done. It has to be. Surely, that means Harry will call with news any day now. 

Any day.  

&

But any day doesn’t come and neither does the phone call. 

Instead, it’s one more postcard that Louis receives only a couple of days later. And, for his own sanity, he tries very hard not to interpret is as a love letter.

 

 

_                                20/08/19 _

_ When you smile at me, it’s like the whole world vanishes. It’s what I think about if I feel observed by strangers on the street. I think about the way you look at me and their inquisitive gaze can’t touch me. How on Earth do you do that?  _

 

It makes him feel small and powerful at the same time, and he’s not sure how Harry can achieve such prowess with only a few scribbled words. 

Still, after  _ that _ , Harry surely is going to call, Louis thinks. 

Any day now. 

&

But a week goes by without a postcard or a call, so Louis forces himself to swallow down the hope he treacherously allowed to grow in his chest. He kills it firmly with a few snide mental remarks, and every time it takes root again somewhere near his heart, Louis gets twice as vicious as the one before.  

He tells himself Harry never cared for him. He tells himself that Harry’s been toying with him all along. He tells himself that it never meant anything to him at all. He tells himself that he’s been nothing but a foolish, stupid, naive man. 

Louis knows only the last part is true, but it helps him manage his expectations when he tells himself those awful things. Hope is a dangerous and powerful thing and he truly can’t allow himself the unavoidable disappointments that come with it. Louis can’t do this 

Of course, every time he rereads the postcards, he’s reminded of how much he’s lying to himself. Of the depth of Harry’s feelings plainly stated on the page. 

Louis doesn’t really believe in anything, but for once in his life, he finds himself looking up at the stars from the top of the tower and asking the universe what it's trying to achieve here. 

&

On the twenty-seventh of August, Louis simply receives this : 

 

_                         24/08/19 _

_ “Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink.”  _

_ maybe Charles Bukowski?  _   
  


He tries not to find it funny, tries to feel miserable about the randomness of it, but he can’t help but think about Harry – stupid Harry – who wrote this down and mailed it to Louis, probably hoping it would make him smile. 

So Louis laughs.

He laughs because it’s funny, and a bit ridiculous, and because he really is in love with that dork. 

&

On the last day of August, Louis receives another postcard from London. 

 

_29/08/19_  

_ “Baby, there’s worlds in your silence / there’s a lifeline on your breath.” _

 

The first time he reads it, he lets out a shuddery exhale, resisting the temptation to google the words. They’re probably new lyrics, something Harry penned a while back, and Louis tries not to feel absolutely overwhelmed by that fact. He can’t look for confirmation though, can’t let himself feel this fully. So he carries on carrying on, puts the postcard in his tin and keeps the words in his heart. 

And it’s a good thing he does so, considering he doesn’t hear from Harry again for a fortnight. 

September settles in, the last few guests leave, the lighthouse empties, and suddenly, Louis is alone with that quiet, that silence. That silence that Harry clearly treasures, still, but that Louis is finding a little difficult to face alone now that he knows what it’s like to share it with someone that he loves.

He’s fine though. He’ll be fine.

&

September fourteen starts like any other day, with Louis waking up at five am sharp and going on a run with Clifford. The air is crisp, the sky black, then navy, then  _ redorangepink _ , until it settles on a perfect blue, and Louis observes its transformation from the beach. He’s disgustingly sweaty, sitting down on a rock as he watches his world awaken, lets himself be moved by the beauty of it all, let’s himself enjoy it. He takes his time before going back to the lighthouse, playing with Clifford on the sand for longer than he normally would before heading back up the cliffs and home. Once he’s inside, it’s late enough that the electricity is on again, so Louis puts his phone on charge before taking a long shower. 

Louis has been silently waiting for all his guests to leave so he could wallow in peace for a while, but now that he’s alone, he’s not as comfortable in the solitude as he expected he would. He doesn’t miss having to fake joy constantly, but maybe the distractions from his broken heart weren’t as bad as he thought. Still, not having to prep breakfast every single night before going to bed and then having to cook said breakfast for everyone early every morning is a luxury. That autumn morning, Louis enjoys taking his tea on the gallery, sitting on the floor with his back against the tower and a book in hand. It’s the Edna St-Vincent Millay poetry book that Harry became so fond of, the pages now well-loved and annotated messily, the corners folded without shame on favourites. It looks cherished now, no longer in pristine condition the American student it used to belong to left it in, and Louis almost can’t believe that Harry didn’t leave with it, what with the way he used to stay nose buried in it night after night. It’s a nice memento for Louis to have though, he won’t deny that. Not to himself. Rereading the poems, rereading the little thoughts Harry has jotted down all over the book, it feels like a part of him stayed here with Louis. Even if it’s tiny. It’s… nice, Louis figures, to having something beyond the postcards to keep, something that proves he was really here with Louis and he’s left a mark on something else than Louis’ heart. 

Louis chuckles, surprisingly with only a smidge of bitterness, when he comes across a particularly poignant and relevant poem. He half-smirks as he reads and rereads a few lines, unable not to think back to the past few months of his life. 

_ “Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;  _

_ Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here!  _

_ But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!  _

_ Would that it were day again! — with twilight near!”  _

“You and me both Edna,” Louis whispers as he takes a sip of tea.  

Distractingly, he glances backwards, towards the cottage rather than the cliffs and he sees a small figure walking away from the building. A familiar figure carrying a bright red Royal Mail bag. 

Louis nearly chokes on his tea at the sight, heart jumping in his throat as it has done every single time Maclean has brought him mail since he has last received a postcard.  

Louis swallows his sip, coughing a little, before shaking his head. 

It’s probably nothing, he tells himself straight away, squishing the stirring of hope in his belly like a bug.  

It’s been fourteen days of silence. Fourteen days with nothing new to receive. Why would today suddenly be different? 

Louis shakes his head, going back to his book. He reads one line, then another, then another, before he realises he’s not reading at all. He’s absorbing none of the information, too obsessed with the hypothetical postcard waiting for him in the cottage. He can’t focus. He can’t focus when there’s the possibility that Harry might have written to him again. 

Except…. 

“Don’t expect anything,” Louis mumbles to himself as he gets up. He puts a finger in the book to mark his page, then leans down to grab his cuppa. 

He leaves the gallery in a hurry, the door swinging behind him as he rushes downstairs. 

“It’s probably nothing!” he exclaims as he walks from the annexe to the cottage, then past the open kitchen door, catching a glimpse of Clifford sleeping underneath the table.  

He opens his mouth to remind himself once again that there’s most likely absolutely nothing exciting waiting for him when he finally reaches the reception desk and sees the postcard that’s been left on the counter for him.  

“Oh,” Louis whispers, instead of whatever it is he was going to tell himself. 

He takes the last few steps forward slowly, almost like he’s scared of the letter, and he knows he must look ridiculous, but he can’t help it. Before going for his mail, he puts both his mug and the book on the counter, no longer caring about the page at all.

It’s from  _ Aberdeen _ , of all places, and Louis can’t imagine what Harry is doing in  _ Aberdeen _ unless he’s… Louis swallows hard, holding onto the reception desk to keep himself upright, heart squeezing painfully in his chest. He shakes his head, mentally crushes the thought that Harry  _ is coming _ . 

He can’t. 

He can’t allow himself the belief that he gets to see Harry soon. 

It’ll hurt too much if… when… 

So Louis shakes his head and Louis crushes the thought. He kills the hope and inhales deeply. Then, he exhales. He’s about to turn the card over when he suddenly closes his eyes, flipping the card around but unable, not ready, for what’s actually on it. 

He waits a few seconds – longer than he should – for the fear to subside. 

It never does, so Louis opens his eyes and reads the card anyway.

 

_                     11/09/18 _

  _Oh Louis, If only there were words…_

_ A lifetime ago, you asked me if I was a writer. I didn’t answer quite truthfully. Yet here I am, dozens of songs later, pages of lyrics I penned, and when I try to think of what to say to you, I can’t remember a single word... Some poet I turned out to be. Robbed of his tongue when he needs it the most. Drowning in thoughts of you.  _

_ Always yours,  _

_ H _

 

“Oh,” Louis whispers again, softly touching the card, the words, the beautiful words that Harry claims he’s lacking. The beautiful words that make Louis’ heart flutter. 

_ Always yours, _ Harry wrote, but they both know that’s not true. They both know it’s not realistic. 

If it were, Harry would be here. Wouldn’t he? 

&  

He’s reading in the living room that same afternoon when it happens.  

First, Louis hears the front door creak open. Then, Clifford’s nails clicking against the floor in the hallway as he goes to see who just walked in, his barking excited at the sight rather than threatening. Finally, a low and familiar voice that carries despite its softness. A voice saying sweet little nothings, claiming Clifford is “such a good boy” and that “it’s so good to see him”. 

Without even realising he’s moved, Louis is suddenly out of his seat, poetry book long forgotten when it lands on the floor with a thud. Heart in his throat, he opens the living room door, gets out of the room and into the hallway, facing the reception area, the still open front door, in front of which Harry kneels bathed in soft autumn light. Clifford’s got his front paws on Harry’s thighs while he’s being scratched behind the ears the way that he likes best, Harry laughing as he tries to avoid Cliff’s kisses directly on his mouth. 

Louis blinks and Harry is still there. 

After months without, it’s a rush he isn’t sure how to control, so many emotions fighting their way to the surface. 

He looks good. Somehow, that’s the thought Louis clings to. Despite the growing optimism in the postcards, Louis realises he had still been worrying when something within him loosens at the sight of Harry, dimples fully on display, shoulders relaxed and eyes untroubled. 

His hair is a bit shorter than when he left, but not quite as short as the first time Louis ever saw him, strands of hair curling against his temples, framing his face delicately. Louis’ stomach tighten with the desire to bury his fingers in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck, to drag him in an embrace, to welcome him home, to – 

Louis inhales deeply and the floor creaks beneath his feet, giving him away. 

Harry finally looks away from Clifford, eyes widening when they meet Louis’. He gets up, a sudden nervous energy in the way he moves, wiping the palm of his hands against his jeans before speaking a single word. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” Louis replies, taking a few steps forward to get out of the corridor and into the reception area. 

 Harry gulps, then smiles – a tiny thing, half shy, half mischievous. “Got any vacancies?” he asks, gesturing towards the dinosaur of a computer that Louis curses at every day. 

Louis thinks about playing it cool for half a second, before shaking his head fondly. “For you? Always.” 

Harry seems to grow in confidence at that, squaring his shoulders and giving Louis a proper smile, dimples out and everything.  

“My new album is coming out in a few months,” is what he says next, taking Louis completely by surprise. 

“Oh,” Louis exclaims, giving Harry an encouraging, but somewhat confused smile. “That’s great, H. That’s… that’s amazing. Congrats.” 

Harry shrugs, dismissing Louis’ compliments with a small gesture. He looks down, shuffling his feet. “I told the label that… that I wasn’t ready to go full out like before. That I can’t do a massive world tour again. The whole different cities every night thing… No home? No anchor? I told them it was too early, that I wasn’t ready.” 

“Babe,” Louis exhales, the endearment slipping out and Harry’s eyes find his, pride shining through them. 

“They agreed,” he reveals. “They said… They said maybe I can start with a small UK tour first. Smaller venues? See how that goes.” 

Louis takes a step forward. “Harry… I’m…” He smiles, suddenly wanting to cry. “I’m so happy for you,” he says, surprising himself by meaning it. “I’m so proud.”  

Harry’s not here to stay. He’s got an album coming out, he’s going on tour again, and even though he’s been writing Louis what might as well be love letters for the past few months, he’s not come here to stay. 

Louis has always known it, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. And still, through the sharp disappointment, Louis feels so thoroughly relieved, so thoroughly euphoric, that Harry is well, that he’s going to keep on doing what he loves. On his terms. That he’s not letting the fear stop him from doing what he was born to do.  

Harry is smiling fully now, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Yeah, I’m… For the first time in a really long time, I’m actually excited about performing again. I’m excited about the music I wrote and I’m excited to share it with people, even if it’s in smaller ways.” 

“That’s…” Louis exhales shakily. “That’s amazing,” he replies, beaming.  

“Yeah.” 

Silence should maybe feel awkward, yet it falls upon them naturally, easily, as it always has between them. They stare at each other, frozen in place, not a hint of discomfort as the clock ticks. Looking into Harry’s eyes, Louis can’t help but wonder… 

“Did you…” Louis takes a step forward. The answer might hurt, but he needs to know. He needs the closure he never got when Harry left, needs to know why he’s back  _ here _ of all places. “Did you come all this way to tell me about the album? About the tour?” 

There’s a deeper question not well hidden underneath and Louis would be ashamed for lacking directness, but he knows Harry doesn’t need someone to talk him through what Louis wants to know. 

Harry looks down, then shakes his head. “No,” he replies softly before looking back at Louis. “Of course not. I came all this way because… because… Well, I know you love your life here and that you’re not lonely up there by yourself,” he gestures towards the tower. “I know you’re not waiting for someone to rescue you from the loneliness or anything like that, that you don’t need someone to complete you, or whatever romantic bullshit…” Harry clears his throat, eyes wet. “But I thought… I thought... since I’m deeply in love with you, that maybe it was worth asking if there’s space for me in that already brilliant life of yours? Because… just like you feel like the truest version of yourself here on Fair Isle, I think… I think I feel like the truest version of myself when I’m with you.” 

Louis blinks, a huge lump in his throat. He looks at this man, this man he loves, who was torn apart by vultures for entertainment and still willingly, with all the bravery in world, puts himself out there and says _here I am_. 

“I know I’m complicated,” Harry whispers when Louis has been silent for too long. There’s a bit of anxiety in his eyes now and he bites his lower lip, preparing himself for a rejection Louis would never be able to give. 

“You’re not complicated,” Louis replies fiercely, walking up to him, cradling his face in his hands, the most precious cargo he’ll ever hold.  

Harry gulps. “I mean… my life... My life is… It’s going to be different than when I was first here, but I… I thought I’d ask anyway.” 

“Harry,” Louis whispers against his lips. Their noses rub together and there’s so much Louis wants to say. Instead, he slides his arms around Harry’s neck, wrapping him into a fierce hug, Harry’s breath warm and wet against the skin of Louis’ neck. “I love you,” Louis tells him softly, not ever wanting to let him go. He shivers a little when he feels Harry’s fingers tightening where he’s holding Louis’ waist. “I’m in love with you too. My life is always going to be better with you in it Harry, no matter how complicated.” 

Harry breaks their hug, whispering “Lou,” brokenly, needily, before leaning forward to kiss him. Time stops as they slot together. Louis never left yet now, as they’re kissing hungrily, pouring months of longing and  _ i miss you _ s in the sliding of their tongues, he’s finally home again. It should be a scary feeling, to know that his home has somehow shifted, changed, that it’s no longer just a place but a person too. But there’s relief in the feeling: he’s got his island and he’s got Harry. That’s all he needs to be home. 

When they separate, Louis lets his hands rest on Harry’s shoulder, feeling the softness of his hoodie under his fingers, smiling a little when he notices the  _ Harry  _ embroidered over his heart, the sight of what he assumes is Harry’s own merch both amusing and endearing. He’s come with no secrets hidden in his suitcase this time, unburden, fully himself, and Louis… Louis loves all of him. 

He looks away from Harry's chest, smile falling a little when he notices how wet Harry’s eyes are, unshed tears clinging to his eyelashes. 

“Hey,” Louis whispers, rubbing his thumb softly under Harry’s left eye. “What is it? Did you think I was going to say no?” he teases gently.  

Harry shrugs, sniffing a little. “Yes.” He pauses. “No.” He shrugs again, this time with a chuckle. “I don’t know.” 

Louis hums, catching the tears under Harry’s right eye this time. 

“It should scare me,” Louis whispers, “but I could never say no. You’re undeniable to me, Harry Styles.”  

“Louis,” Harry gasps, knowing what he truly means, knowing the depth of what Louis is saying. “I missed you so much,” he admits in a whisper. “I thought about you every day.”  

“I missed you too,” Louis replies. 

This time, when they kiss, there’s no heat, only tenderness.  

“Oh,” Harry gasps, separating their bodies, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. “I have something for you,” he says, handing Louis a Fair Isle postcard, the familiar painting of Louis’ B&B staring at him. “I got it at Mr Dunn’s.”  

“Yeah,” Louis nods, having seen this particular model a thousand times and more near the counter at Dunn’s grocers. “I know,” he adds, gulping down the well of emotions bubbling in his chest. 

He turns the card around, Harry’s now familiar handwriting hurried and messy on the paper, like maybe his hand wasn’t fast enough for everything he wanted to say in that moment. Louis imagines him leaning over the counter at Mr Dunn’s, heart in his throat and hope in his heart, pouring his soul out. 

 

_                              14/09/19 _

_ It’s you.  _

_ It’s you my love, who brought me back here again and again – if only in thoughts – like the never-ending storm on this island, whose winds and waves kiss the beach you walk week after week. You stand as tall as your tower in my mind’s eyes, a guiding light, a call home.  _

_ A voice in the back of my mind.  _

_ Undeniable.  _


End file.
